The Revival of Evil
by SoldierDaria
Summary: An Overlord that had once conquered the lands was trapped in another realm for millennia. She has returned to a ruined Tower with only a few minions under her dark command. However, all is not lost, as in her absence, the forces of good have become complacent, and the land is ripe for conquest once again and the revival of a Dark Domain that had once shadowed the land...
1. Prologue

Prologue—A Troupe Summary

i

From the shadows, hid a short, decrepit figure who perched over a metal pyre of smoking cinders and sulfuric, yellow smoke. Its face obscured in darkness, lost in wrinkles, real as a witch, it stood decrepit, goblinoid, clothed in hooded garments, dark and soiled, that piled over its hunched form around a once-lavish, dark-red tunic—the epitome of age and established-evil.

It neared its putrid, crone-like face against the bed of glowing coals, leaning in as it brought together cloven hoofs, clattering, clanking, piercing the static silence of the room with each collision. And red sparks, molten hot, fell into the arcane, esoteric pile. Time passed, and no results, the ugly creature spat thrice over its left shoulder and spoke, calling out to the prancing noises in the dark, "Moldy! I need new devil's feet!"

The satanic ungulate were a crucial component of hellfire, that would always burn and never go out—if it could be properly transmuted from Hell, of course. The evil creatures in the room had once used the infernal lights to illuminate their lamps and torches, but that was a long time ago, with a different sorcerer as leader—the figure kept trying.

Around it, inside the crumbling room, were piles of broken and rusted blades, arrows, and pieces of battered armor. Wooden poles, snapped in half like spindles, their flags and banners torn and ragged with age, worn down by dust and disuse, hanged about the room like a dying, stagnant forest. And lumps and cracked sections of carved rocks, that had once been part of grandiose statues, littered the floors, creating an abysmal air within the room that would clog the lungs of lesser creatures. It was a wonder how these creatures lived, how they stayed alive, but they prospered, as though living in the ruins of carnage offered them more than one of bountiful beauty.

Everything was still and frozen within the room. Clouds of dust and light and snow floated static in the air, unmoving, unwading, unopposed, through the river of time. The stone of the floor and of the walls were cold and covered in countless nicks and chips and cracks from the passage of centuries in disregard and without repair. It was a wonder if the gnarled, slovenly creatures who inhabited these ruins could ever hope to wield hammers or saws; proper architecture, it seemed, has been lost to these lower animals. The dark and barren chamber, open to the outside snow, the tundra of ice, flowed with decaying winds and the glacial approach of complete ruin.

The dark figure stood on a large ashlar of fallen masonry by the cold pyre. Grey, wrinkled hands clawed over the handle of a torchlight, scratching stone as it waved the crystalline light back and forth, scurrying over brickwork, moving in clockwork about the broken rock with animal precision, in a fleeting stumble, as it tried to escape from some unseen terror.

The torchlight fell into a puddle, the light being lost in brine, scum-covered water, and the room went dark. Darkness coiled like a snake around the room, extinguishing the creature's flight from view, until it wrapped just around the glowing charcoal cinders within the iron pyre.

Suddenly, a loud explosion filled the room with red light—followed by maniacal laughter from the cinders of the unlit fire. Debris flew around the room, concussion forces slammed glass and clutter against the walls, against the already-ruined room and room-occupants. The light killed the shadows, and a rabble of the dark creatures (resembling the short, gnarled figure—though, decidingly more youthful in movement and appearance) could be seen on fire, squealing and spasming in pain; the creatures flailed their long arms wildly, howling like slaughtered pigs.

The dark figure, that had been the one trying to temper the fire, could be heard screaming as it contracted and contorted in pain, audibly shouting for all to hear, "The devil has escaped the flame! Find it—ahhh!"

Miniature flames and puffs of smoke filled the room with explosions at random, and the expanding heat caused all the wood and everything made of wood within the room to go up in flames. Everything was in chaos: the shadow-brown creatures were all flailing their weapons in the air, trying, in vain, to hit the unseen spectre. A few creatures, horned and puce, kneeled ritualistically over the fires, holding affinity to the flames not shared by their inflammable (inflamed) cousins and brothers, absorbing the wayward infernos within their breasts, acting as fire control (though, sometimes, lighting their own).

The chaos within the room endured long enough to destroy every already-unbroken thing, and then the occult pain for everybody and the maniac laughter abruptly stopped when one of the dark creatures had managed to find the hobman, the small devillet; the room broke into cheering and celebration as the devil-imp was grabbed around the neck and strangled with bovine hands until it dropped, as others beat it with clubs and rocks, wailing on it until it died. The aftermath of the plight, the confrontational fight, was that many bodies of the bizarre creatures laid dead on the floor and the rest near-dead, bleeding from tortured cuts and tears, pockmarked by burns. Some of the bodies got slowly up, and the rest remained on the ground, either moaning on the floor, flaring in pain, or staying silent as a corpse. Once the short, dark figure managed to get up, it limped hurriedly over to the still-burning crimson fire and quickly scratched away the infernal goetia, not bothering to recoil from its blazing heat, with its claws. It then breathed out slowly, wheezed, and sighed in sullen displeasure, "Another failure. Need to try more brimstone and less alkaline salts—or maybe it was the seal? Bah."

It pulled out what appeared to be a binded notebook from within its cloak, and scribbled its musings in pen, " _Devils, you can't ever trust them to behave themselves, one mishap on their binding circle, no matter if you formed a contract or not, or prepared the proper protective wards, can cause them to escape unto the world, wreaking wanton destruction and apocalypse with no artistic flair! Bah—better the devil you know than devil you don't."_

Around the room the pathetic creatures finally adapted to the aftermath of the situation, and commented, "That no fun," one blurted stupidly.

"Fire! Boom boom!" One said, while watching smoldering wooden beams fall from the ceiling.

The old creature barked, "Somebody get a cleanup crew in here," and tucked its notebook back into the recesses of its cloak.

The old creature crept and hobbled with newfound, flaring pain back over to its black ashlar block and sat, then spoke in a high-pitched yowl—a shrill canker—but in an oddly articulative manner, as if nothing surprising or out of the norm had just happened. Yellow, macabre orbs shined within its wrinkled eye sockets, a clawed hand went in an acquired habit to the white wisp of whiskers at its chin, probing the hair as though in deep thought, in an intelligent way. Its head tilted to the side, and large, goblin-like ears with tarnished rings flopped downwards, as its eyes looked upward, then forward in a slow, ugly way and shouted, "Exeunt the clowns!"

And exeunted the clowns almost immediately from the doors bordering the room, and in a tumble of tongs and drums, came raucous chaos: a throng of short, brown-grey, sinewy goblinoids—small orclings—came into the room with flips and rolls and jumps forward in a clanker of brown metal, fur, and leather. Yellow eyes glowered piercingly on their wretched, disfigured faces in the dark room, and mouths filled with white fangs spoke all at once at random as they happily chirped and laughed and frolicked over the room's clutter and the corpses of their fallen litter—three of them, the mechanicals—as a drummer, yet another of the hideous creatures, began to set up his hulking instrument.

"Garble!" Gnarl, the ancient, crone-like, grey-black one—who had been the dark figure in the shadows—said like a proclamation as it crept away from the crackling pyre to stand under a beam of light from a hole in the ceiling, its spotlight onto a stage, to stand at the forefront of the troupe of heinous clowns, who quickly got quiet, quieted down, and waited for instructions; they being officially ready to start their often rehearsed routine and play—its prologue—seemingly oblivious to the multitude of smoldering bodies with the room or the smell, or simply not caring.

The creature named Garble took a gaited step forward in a prance, long bat-like ears twitched and bounced like a jester's cap and bells, as it moved with rat fur pasted onto its bare chest. It cleared its bony throat, which wasn't necessary, and spoke with bad pronunciation and a too-quick, garbled tongue, sounding childish and stupid, "The Dark Lord, our Lady, hath lingers," it took a small pause, and said like a beaten cat, "Away in Fairyland she hath been trappèd."

Another of the minions took a step forward, being cued by the ancient, gnarled commander with vapid gestures—frantically waving hands—as it grinned like a madman, and said, "Seduced by fair Cerve's love and led away," is paused for effect, and said, "For Fairy's moon hath passèd slowly by."

Another of the monsters came forth, making a line of three, and said, "But under doth sky of ours: a century."

The drum and tongs behind the three players began to beat louder, a cacophony of vibrant sound; the drummer banged and bashed out a deep, low-toned overture, that grew louder into a vibrant, cascading crescendo. The drummer began to screech and yelp agnostically, becoming too excited for its own good—a battle cry and inciting cheer—a hum he thought fit the tune.

Going down the line of clowns, speaking faster to keep up with the wayward drummer, "We thinketh it has been ten Fairy-nights."

"Which meaneth a millennium hath passed."

"Since the Dark Lord, our Lady, has been away."

"At last, she hath now breaketh Fairy-spell."

"And returned to us, her slaves, her minions!"

The trio then erupted in a fit of cheers, rude noise, and laughter, as they did carnage onto the ruined room; they jumped up and down and happily shouted, or bellowed, their primal joy like tortured men. They began to lose their wits and began to hit at each other and one another and the room with fists and kicks as the old, hunched, and disfigured Gnarl slipped back into the shadows of the room, wringing its black hands, as the yellow pearls of its eyes began to glow brighter with foreboding hate.

It spoke in a cackling laughter, and said, "Yes, of course, she has returned, as Evil always finds a way—"

The orc-like players continued to fight and whack fistacuffs at each other until they began knocking each other out and over at random. Until they got bored with inflicting pain, and began to chase around the large black rats, that scurried around the room, to kill, that gnawed on the bodies of the earlier fight's casualties.

They shouted random fragments of phrases and words the whole time, either comprehensible or not, but the general meaning was this, "The Dark Lady is coming! We will reform our minion hordes. Summon the dragons, wraiths, and fiends! All Evil serves the Overlord, our master!"


	2. Part 1, Chapter 1

Chapter 1—The Return

I

Locked within the glacial mountains that spiked like a crown of thorns, where white snow piled on ice to form creaking glaciers and frozen tundras, there laid a pile of foreboding rocks that could vaguely resemble a tower. Black ashlars carved with fiendish reliefs and spells and ruined battlements formed a complex nearly a kilometer high that had at one point in time withstood centuries of countless sieges, that has housed a progeny of Dark Lords who had used the once grand, impervious Tower as their base of heinous operations and the headquarters for their invading hordes.

The Tower was destroyed, yes, and there went its legacy of indomitableness. Countless of Dark Lords had fallen in the past, countless heroes had them vanquished. History has been rewritten by the victors, who clung to the concept of dichotomy, that Good and Evil are separate, opposing entities. They wrote the history that Good could always defeat Evil, that it would always defeat Evil no matter what, unaware that Evil exists within the hearts of all mankind. There is no hero without flaw, there is no villain without good; both are redeemable, all are corruptible. Name a hero who has not sinned, not killed due to hatred, not been blinded by fame—then name a villain who has never felt guilt, never brandished the thought that they could face redemption without deception—and see that you cannot.

While history has been written, lessons have been forgotten—all things built by man crumble and decay—yet this Tower remains unperverted. This Tower retains the legacy of its former glory—where a single brick still remains, one cannot say it has been destroyed—and all things can be rebuilt. The Evil that has stained the land remains, the creatures who had embodied the once-formidable army as its soldiers still remain, now veteran, while older, of the past wars, not forgetting their old hatred.

The Tower was now cloistered by thrown-together scaffolding and cranes; it was in the process of being rebuilt, being labored at, hammered on, all times of the day. A black rock quarry had been dug further up the mountain, and endless blocks of naked ashlar were being transported entrain en masse to the site on the hunched backs of slaves—the pyramids weren't built in a day—and minions. The unlucky humans (men and women) were captured by small bands of minion raiders (who were, after a thousand years, thought to have been only fairytale) and forced by whip to work to rebuild the black Tower.

Minion sentries stood in broken watchtowers and patrolled on crumbling walls in full suits of rusted and battered plate mail armor on the once-strong battlements. Parties of faster and short goblinoids ran around the perimeter of the Tower in furs and leather armor, carrying wicked, scythe-like implements, knives and spears, as they hunted for food and patrolled the glaciers and snowy passes to guard against intruders. Countless workers, short and scrawny (but stronger than they looked), beat hammers and chisels against the stone curtain walls on the shoddy scaffolds and supports, working to restore the ruined, loathed Tower.

It was the revival of an evil power that had not stirred for a thousand years. Dark clouds had begun to stir black and red overhead the Tower—not yet seen by the forces of Good.

The sound of work could also be heard reshaping ancient rock and carving out new reliefs on the stone blocks inside the Tower and rubble was cleared away. The remnants of a once infinite horde dwindled to a crowd of tireless builders, who now could only count for a scarce hundred weak and wretched creatures, molested by time and stagnation.

Work was done on site all day and all night in long shifts that gave workers only a few hours of sleep and time to eat, there being no peace for the wicked; however, fanatic loyalty to their master and an indoctrinated sense of duty overpowered their fatigue, and they kept at work without complain. In consequence, however, injuries and accidents became more common as the days progressed, the first casualties of many to come, necessary sacrifices that had to be made to ensure the degradation—the near extinction—of their species never happened again.

And inside the Tower, past the many holes that adorned the black curtain wall, through collapsed rooms, buried corridors, forgotten halls, and snow-stained floors, there sat the pale figure of a woman, deplorable, who sat on the slabs of broken wall and rubble that formed the semblance of a throne—who sat with a rampant mind and wandering thoughts—surrounded by goblinoid attendants, confused, fatigued, a woman out of time.

* * *

I had crossed the threshold between this world and the next; I had left the curtain of magic and stepped out into the open world all at once. Out of the forest, of what had been ten days, left the terrain changed completely. Gone was my power, that was culminated by the fear and hatred towards me—no longer did I feel the tempest of my blossoming empire, hundreds dead each day, screams of mayhem and bloodlust on the wind—the weather felt odd, as if knowledge had been lost. The knowledge of many things: ancient magic, technology, and fear. The world had been rebirthed, reborn from the ashes of the war I had inflicted onto its progenitor. The sky was brighter, the mountains were visibly skrunked, wrinkled, atrophied—the maw of the land having been worn down from the erosion of time.

I walked, my feet wobbled, deplorable—my gait moved uneven on the soft, verdant grass. I was fatigued too easily, I thought, every hundred meters forced me to stop and catch my breath. A puddle, crystalline, clear—my face: cheeks flushed high color, my skin pallid, cadaverous—I stopped and drank from the mud like a mongrel, and didn't stop lapping until my lips kissed dirt, the puddle drained of its precious commodity.

I got up, kept moving—had to keep moving—the forest had grown lush and taller than what was proper for a leave of ten days, I knew. A feeling of dread and a sensation of dismay took root inside my head, as even a fool had to believe their own eyes. The land had become verdant, peaceful, alive—ten days ago, supposedly, I had robbed it black, reduced everything to ash.

I don't know how long I traveled, my mind blank, until I could recollect my feet trudging through snow. I had to make my way back to the Tower—there everything would be better—I soon met a couple of minions on the the way, of course, as my presence served as a natural magnet to these creatures. On the way, they explained to me in their garbled tongue that I had been gone for a thousand years.

(O Cerve, O Cerve, O Cerve how could you betray your love.)

And I knew that the princess of the Fairies had led me blindly into a trap, trapping me in her world, sealing me in what had been her loving embrace, robbing me of my time, my former world, my existence. She had defeated me. She had slain me—me having been long dead to the world—bested me utterly and completely; how unfair philosophy was, that lady Destiny, Fortune, could be. Good had beat Evil after all, as it has always done, as it has done so many times in the past. But I thought, an echo—Evil always finds a way—I was back. The Tower welcomed me, resonating in an tremor that shook its mountains. The minions ran forth in a crowd of wretched, emaciated souls in a clinker of broken metal and arms.

* * *

The woman, sullen, displeased, looked young, full of passion and beauty that marked her as a maid or damsel or quean, as she sat on her ruined throne basking in the heat of weak red fires burning around her, warming her cheeks high color, puce, red-scarlet in fever, leaving her body to contrast white cold. She sat lazily reclined, legs crossed, right over left, her bosom raising and falling with heavy, tired breaths; she looked sick, pale, and tired. Her eyes fluttered, hovering between sleep and wake, as she held her head up with a dainty, slender hand.

And coughed, "Our numbers?" Her voice reverberated around the frozen silence of the room, full of supposed authority, antique dialect, weak and quiet, and somewhat bashful-sounding, almost delicate-like.

But if any of her minions thought anything was peculiar about her—if they thought anything of her being too damsel-like or dainty to have ever had the title of Overlord—they didn't say. Instead, they kept silent, and worked their hands to the bone. It had been common knowledge for the minions growing up about her worthiness as their leader, their lord—their lady—her legitimacy to the throne was strong, as, before her, no Overlord or other evil leader had come close to achieving the magnitude of what she conquered, nor the carnage and annihilation she brought, the riches she had amassed, what had been done, and lives in infamy, by her former Empire.

The minions had dressed their lady in warm black robes and a dress and cloak made out of furs and heavy fancy cloth, after having been removed from the great spiked armor, that they had found her in, that had once inspired fear and misery—such armor became synonymous of every dark lord after her—into the minds of mortals and immortals alike. She now sat barbarian queen, draped in fresh animal fur, still smelling of blood—she was bundled in layers of clothing so that she wouldn't be cold (she was still cold, despite this, of course, but she kept it silent, as it would only end up making the simple things sad). Her precious minions dotted on her, who more than welcomed the opportunity to do so again, as they had waited a long time for her return. Having their mistress back meant them having purpose again. These creatures existed only to do war—their only desire in life was to kill and rob and do carnage—and it was their mistress who brought such a war, which they excelled at, and very much wanted to get to do so again.

The minions rallied around the woman for the chance to re-wreak havoc across the land again. The creatures lived to serve their dark master; it was why they were created, and kept being created. It was fundamental knowledge that was unattainable, had no meaning, to all the other races. And fond over her they did, following her every order no matter what, dying if need be—the perfect army.

The dark-haired woman looked the same as she had a thousand years ago, of course—her mortal vessel having only aged ten days—pale skin white as a corpse, brown, blackish hair slicked back down both sides of her head. Her eyes, pale-brown disks, began to slowly turn a sickly yellow as the sun faded from the sky; her strength and magic began to return quickly as the night fell. Her Dark Tower began to resonate with her evil presence once again: the halls began to stir, heating up, the snow that had it perverted began to melt, and the sky above began to choke with blackening clouds.

"A-aah! Bah ba!" A pale-brown minion seemed to moan out, croaking a random guess in Old Tongue at the number of minions present in its lady's service—albeit a very wrong and stupid guess that would have irritated anyone.

The woman slammed her bare fist in annoyed anger onto the stone seat, causing a small crater and a webbing of cracks to form, she barked, "Report thyself to the quarry, foul thing!"

And the pitiful creature sulked, gave a defeated salute with its massive ears pouting as it walked away downtrodden—head hung like a fool—with sagging shoulders. Ashamed, as it went to exit the Hall to go and loyally obey its Dark Lord's self-destructive order.

The short, decrepit figure, Gnarl, quickly hobbled over to the woman, assuming a place at her side, having automatically assumed the role as her advisor upon her (not-so-triumph) return—the old adviser being a skeletal husk in the neighboring corridor. He carefully said, "You've just a over a hundred minions, _my dark lady_ ," he added with a hint of abysmal joy, and continued, "and eleven of the soldiers, the _man-orcs_ , left in service," he said, this time in scorn.

"How have you raised their numbers in my absence, Gnarl?" The woman asked, still coming to terms with her millennia-long leave of absence, her departure from the world, and the ruined state of her once lavish Hall and Tower.

"Oh," he said, "with the few life forces we had gathered here and there—we could have spawned a few dozen more minions with the amount, as the soldiers require much more life force than true minions do."

"The strength of the man-orcs far exceeds that of the minions, Gnarl—"

"Nevertheless, my liege, past Overlords have done just as well without them," Gnarl interrupted, sharing his distaste of the newer, larger minion types, he continued, "Evil, my lord, is finding ways to kill innocents and to ruin lives with what one has on hand, sire—true evil is about doing things with less—"

"No more, Gnarl," she interjected, "You'd be wise not to share your criticism with me so soon—better to wait while I'm in a better mood—don't overstep your new position so soon—" She warned darkly, but was interrupted again.

"And it is a very difficult thing to harvest life force without an Overlord, of course," He finished, yellow eyes glowing with what the woman thought was spite, causing the Overlord to get annoyed, but she didn't say anything—she had a headache from her fatigue and the constant noise of loud construction.

The woman sat back into her throne in mild annoyance. She had to think—think tactically of the new situation she found herself in—how she should best approach future matters with the limited resources she had on hand.

She then said, as her pale-brown eyes scanned over the stone Hall that was under immediate construction, "Raise five soldiers—kill the rats and insects around the Tower to get the necessary life force. If that is not enough, go to the tundra and see if there are any animals to kill; besides, we could use more meat for our labor force, they can't keep continuing to die at the rate they are. It should be an easier task to harvest their life force now that I am here," she said.

The effort left her drained—she slumped back into the recesses of her throne, pulling the draping fabrics of her clothing around her—with a gesture, she had one of the minions wrap an additional fur blanket over her, and ordered another to prepare a cup of warm liquid for her: tea if they had it, hot water if not.

"My lord, if I may make a suggestion, wouldn't it be more productive to raise more minions with that life force? to rebuild the Dark Tower, of course. A proper Overlord must have a proper, evil Tower, sire!" Gnarl exclaimed, having assumed the role of her advisor.

Your typical minion was strong, but stupid; it tended to forgo all forms of cerebral thought, filling its mind instead with fantasies of what to kill, what to pillage (especially what it could put on its head), and not much else. How minions managed to be able to articulate themselves, as was the case with Gnarl, and seem to be more attuned with magic, was a mystery to the woman, one that she hoped to one day solve. Whether it was age, experience, or luck, I didn't matter, being able to form a complete sentence with a coherent thought was enough for the woman to accept him as her advisor.

She said, "No, the Tower can wait; a few minions born from rats and bugs won't be productive in expanding our workforce— no, for that, we need soldiers: raid, plunder, and slaughter will give me the life force I need to build my new horde."  
"Of course, master, I'll put in the order right away. Mutton!" He called, "Use that pot of life force we have on the soldier-minions' hive! Create five larvae and plant them in the blackest mud of the burrows and spawning pit!" He shouted to one of the idle minions, Mutton, in the room.

The minion Mutton saluted the woman who sat on the throne, and marched away, overdoing it—swinging its arms out like a fool and thrusting the garrison belt to and fro, back and forth, from its pelvis—as, suddenly, one of the guards who stood sentry in the Hall dropped its heavy axe, landing on Mutton's foot, slicing off its toes, as Mutton had been walking past.

The minion Mutton bellowed in pain as it rolled across the floor—spreading blood from its foot everywhere. A guard stumbled into the room from across the hall, having heard the disturbance and seeing if it needed killed—seeing it was Mutton, he grabbed a torch from the wall (destroying its fixture to the wall in the process) and stabbed it onto Mutton's foot that was oozing crimson on the floor, causing Mutton to scream in anguish in greater agony, as the Overlord and Gnarl watched without comment.  
"The yellow pot, Mutton! Don't you dare mix the yellows with the greens again!" Gnarl spat as Mutton limped painfully away.

It took the evening for the minion-soldiers to be spawned (the process being faster at night), having been formed from a brew of different life forces, mortal souls, to transmute a body of flesh and meat from the souls within the minion hive—the ultimate alchemic creation of an Overlord. The larvae left the bulbous, organic hive covered in a film of a hot, skin-like membrane. Their bodies came out writhing from pain from the infernal, blazing heat that they formed from within the hive—all life coming from ovens. The larvae had to be thrown into the black mud of the Spawning Pit to cool them down, causing the mud to bubble and steam as they squirmed like worms, like maggots, through the sea of filth.

And soon, five of the minion-soldiers—creatures half man, half minion—stood wretched, deformed, ugly perversion of life and beauty, in front of the woman's throne, being clothed in nothing, understanding nothing. They only knew anger; they had been born from pain—their genesis more equivalent to that of coming from molten metal within a furnace—that tempered their flesh like iron. They were as flexible as any metal, and as dull as it too—both their minds and attitudes had to sharpened before they could be of any use.

The black-hearted creatures have had no time to come to terms with life; they stood confused and hateful, hating the pain they had to endure through their formation, and the abuse it took to drag them into the room before the Lady who expected their complete submission. The pain would follow them throughout life, haunting them for forever. They were abominations of nature, deformed and corrupted, their very being having come from the slaughter of mortals. Physically, they were giant and broad, towering over two meters tall; they were covered in large muscle, flat-nosed, sable-skinned, yellow-eyed, and fierce looking, looking ape-like and only sharing a vague resemblance to their smaller cousins, the minions.

"They're flawed," remarked the woman after seeing them, their chests moving like massive billows as they panted, perspiring profusely (a rancid smell) and gasped for the cold air of the room. They were feverish for some reason; their bodies acted as though the ice-cold throne room was like the heat of a desert.

"Yes, it's quite peculiar. I had noticed such behavior from the other soldiers we have spawned over the past few centuries. We had to keep them outside in the snow or submerged in icy ponds, which seems to work; however, they barely last a year, dying almost as soon as the season turns to summer. It has been a millennia, master, quite literally, and much can go wrong with minion hives; the soldier-hives in particular, having not been made using the same process and recipe as the standard minion hives. They have been left in the frozen burrows for quite some time, many centuries, and have probably needed to adapt some sort of bodily mechanism that allows the larvae to survive in the extreme cold—although, seemingly, not much else."

"It's not warm in here," the woman commented, referring to the frozen landscape outside and the just-as-cold interior of the Tower.

"Yes, most odd, but it appears that any temperature, short of what is under glaciers, is too hot for their meaty carcasses to handle. It seems, master, that your absence has done no one no bad, well aside from your own forces, which isn't really that helpful. It may also be because of how their hives were not created by the first Overlord, who made hives that are more or less indestructible. I wonder if somehow a mistake was made in their creation by you, something flawed somewhere or another."

The pale brown eyes of the woman began to reflect the red light of the pits of fire around her. She glowered, malice-filled, deplorable, with absolute hate and rage; her red eyes bore into the foolish minion who had said too much. The Tower itself began to tremble, resonating with the powerful emotions of its master. The scaffolding outside began to waver dangerously, threatening to collapse off the side the Tower's side. One of the pyres on either side of the woman was knocked over from the evil, chaotic energy that sparked from within the powerful woman's mind.

The woman spoke, her voice becoming louder and deeper, echoing throughout the room, "Were their hives not cared for, properly maintained, in my absence, Gnarl? Do you dare compare the first Overlord to me? Why were not the hives kept someplace warm? I assure you, that those hives had once produced fine specimens of minion-kind. Why am I to come back to find their hives damaged and my Tower ruined? To find the tortured remnants of my horde dwindling to a handful. Who should I blame? Who should feel my wrath, Gnarl?"

The creature Gnarl fell to its arthritic knees, and blurted out a whiny string of excused for itself and apologies, not wanting to further incite his master's wrath, with its chaotic anger and lethal repercussion. The figure's form and voice seemed to turn decades younger, no longer possessing its past confidence, "You must understand, my lord! We were dangerously understaffed in your millennia-long absence. We have been hunted down and slain wherever we are found. We hundred that have survived could barely ensure our own existence, let alone tend to the multitude of your different hives!"

The woman on the throne calmed down, her anger slowly subsiding, as her flare of passion drained her—it disappearing as quickly as it had come—she ignored Gnarl, and turned her remaining anger towards the man-orcs who stood in front of her. The failed experiments, once the vanguards and shock troopers of her once magnificent horde. Defective hives had no place in her possession; defective soldiers had no place in her new horde. It seemed that their services were no longer required, she thought.

"Kill them and purge their hives. I'll start their process over. Ready the minions, ready their rations and munitions; whatever we have remaining, we'll invade the forest with. We need components and materials from the spirits to properly equip our soldiers and to construct new hives. I'll put you in charge of capturing one hundred women, I assume you know what their purpose is for, Gnarl; you've aged quite a lot, but I hope for your own sake you can still either plan a raid or lead soldiers into battle. Go, do not arouse suspicion from our enemies, purchase the women if need be, I don't mind, but do not leave a trail that can be followed back to me."

The newly birthed soldiers in the Hall shuffled back and forth nervously after hearing the orders of their own destruction and their species' genocide, but before they could decide whether to run or flee or fight, the woman rose from her throne and prowled dangerously towards them with glowing red eyes, radiating an amazing aura of painful heat and inhuman malice. Her pale hand extended out and crackled yellow-red, causing the man-orcs to freeze, unable to move—fixed in place—the woman made the clawed gesture of harnessing evil, as if reaching her nails towards the orcs. Invisible magic energy fluttered scarlet within the wind in the air and caused short electric discharges of energy and unbearable heat to fill the room.

" _Cast thy down, thou evil fiend;  
I cast fire unto thee;  
Transform into hell-fire,  
And cinder in agony!"_

The woman swooned, her head hurt with ache, as her body was not ready for such scale of magic and the drainage of energy such a spell took. She wobbled as she walked, a bit, stumbled, as she tried to keep her momentum moving forward, and failed. Her minion attendants grasped onto her by her pale arms and legs and belly as she fell forwards, and sat her back down onto her throne. All the while, she watched the soldier-minions in the room start to scream in misery and pain, as their skins turned ash-black and became pockmarked by beads of orange-fire and lodestars that quickly grew into a fiery flare—a vertical column of blinding heat and light, that spread through their entire bodies, and caused their bodies to incinerate into ash, and crumple, within milliseconds.

The dark-haired woman got off her throne and walked forward into the her hall towards a puddle of brine solution, crawling with vines, that partially submerged a large crystalline globe, which radiated intense, violent energy, and began to rise into the air as the woman approached.  
"Step into the portal, master, and start rebuilding your dark Domain," Gnarl said to the side as the Overlady moved towards the Tower Heart.

Minions chased after her carrying bits and pieces of her heavy armor, which they patched and pressed onto her, bolting and fitting everything into place as she walked; her yellow eyes turned to burning pearls of malice and wrath.


	3. Part 1, Chapter 2

Chapter 2—The Forest and Hero

II

It was a forest of white trees that stood up like opulent shafts of polished silver with leaves on winding branches that were red-gold and shined in the sun. The forest was revered by foresters and charlatans and nearby villagers as magic. And, truth be told, it was home to many woodland spirits, fairies, and gnomes (who were extremely dangerous despite their common preconception).

It took a day to march down from the snowy peaks to the east where the forest laid. The Overlord had prepared all her minions as soldiers, using armor and arms that they had salvaged from the ruined piles around the Tower, and marched at the head of her column of a hundred minions and eleven of the her loathed soldier-minions, the latter she had decided to spare from genocide for a while—until she could restore their hive to working order—but had to keep them cooled with a spell to keep them alive, to keep them from overheating. For the time being, for as long as the spell lasted, they were as strong as their ancestors had been a thousand years ago; and, as such, they were equipped the best among her small horde. They stood tall and proper in full suits of plate mail that almost shined black instead of reflecting rust, and they carried massive swords—as large as a man—like cleavers, that could chop off the head of a troll in a single, mighty swing. The entire platoon of minion troops clinked piecemeal armor and threadbare leather, being patched and welded with Frankenstein-like repairs.

The short, goblin-like minions and the man-like soldiers were armed to the teeth with spears and clubs and shields and swords. They marched in tight, rectangular formation as they followed after their Overlord; whistling and bellowing the tune of marches and odes as they all trembled and cheered with excitement at the prospect of soon-to-be-had battle and carnage.

The Overlord wore her armor—black, spiked durium—that radiated dread and malice and unearthly heat, wearing a great fluttering cloak, carrying an malice-filled pernach—mace—ornate, tough, heavy, as she marched like a great military commander. At every kilometer they marched through the forest, massive, stone, and worm-like constructions—organic automatons—erupted from the ground in an explosion of stone and dirt, leveling trees, anchoring itself by pulling apart its maw to act like hooks, to latch onto the surface of the ground, creating checkpoints, a gate, that the granted the Overlord access to the Netherworld. And every hour, unbeknownst to the forestlings, minions would creep out from the portal and sink into the shadows with bombs, planting them all around, that would later be used to destroy the forest. But no one noticed, as everybody had their fearful eyes glued onto the Overlord as she marched wraith-like through the forest. She marched like it was acquired habit, in immaculate, alien sync: never missing a beat, never losing her footing.

Her eyes glowed sulfuric rancor beneath the crown of her durium mask, behind its demon-like visage—three spikes grew from her helmet, arching slightly behind—if she wasn't careful, power tends to corrupt, absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men. Evilness taints, darkness corrupts—more than one Overlord had managed to completely renounce his humanity, forgoing all measure of remorse and empathy. They found their minds enslave by tendrils of hate and fear; their bodies sprouted hyphae of spikes and horns, bulbous growths and auras of chaos, as their bodies became substrates for Evil. Evil was an addictive narcotic that granted malevolent power but caused physical degradation. The woman knew to be careful, but knew that it was already too late—her yellow eyes reflected this—it already had a hold on her, granted her immeasurable strength and skill with magic. She would one day wake to find her arms covered in black spikes, to find the air around her toxic, and her muscles would spasm as her strength became too much for her physical body to endure. And her fate beyond that was unknown; she did not know if she could survive beyond that point—it was the point of no return for all things that embodied evil.

She casted the thought aside. Her armor was large and its proportions were indistinct; she was Tiresias, casted unsexed— it remained unknown to most that she was a woman. In fact, there had been a number of female Overlords in the past, the title lacking any grammatical gender, for the most part. But that fact had remained forgotten through time, having been unknown by the forces of good, who were the ones that recorded the flawed, now-permanent history.

Her horde quickly found itself opposed. The forces of Evil were quickly met by the arrival of many cloaked and daggered elfs and a single distaff fairy; the fairy looked to be a beautiful young woman, but whose skin was as pale as snow and she radiated a complex feeling of unnatural knowledge and morality, carrying herself with extreme importance. She wore a white dress under silver-steel (arcanium) armor that left little to imagination—a buxom lass, the Overlord thought. She was blonde with hair like Helen and eyes that reflected the knowledge of Faust. She radiated an aura of joy and maternal goodness and intense energy that permeated through the air, causing all the minions to cough and spit as they choked on the foul stench. The elves in the trees and the forest foliage drew their ivory arrow inlaid with gold, drawn on silver bows, towards the goblinoid horde as the sun of the day glared off their brazen armor into the sepulchral, coffin-yellow eyes of the squinting minions, who felt tired and weak under the bright sun of midday, their true power manifesting itself at night.

"Not hath an Overlord held claim for years," the fairy spoke as she stared blue defiance into the sulfuric eyes of the Overlord, drawing a silver sword from her belt.  
The sea of minions marched forward and moved into a disorderly arc around their leader, looking to surround the smaller number of forestlings; however, more elfs and else continued to materialize from the bushes and trees and from the ground, forming a shield wall of large bows around their fairy and leader.

"I've held claim for the ten days of the millennia on this world," the Overlord said.

"You speak in riddles like a snake."

"I have always been the Overlord since the day I found the gauntlet I wear on my arm hence. There is always an Overlord, wench. You thought that you had defeated Evil since for a thousand years of peace when you thought the Overlord had disappeared. I am that Overlord, blasted fairy, and have returned.

"You claim to be the Dark Lord that had existed in archaic history? Is that how you claim your legitimacy? How you make these mindless orcs follow you like their previous master? You found his armor, and wear it well, but I see your face behind the veil of shadow, little girl. You are not the Dark Lord, the one who had almost destroyed the world."

And the minions erupted in a fit of hisses and boos. They clambered and cursed, flipping gestures and chuckling as they counterattacked with retorts and insults of their own, "That are Overlord. Take my sword between the legs!"

"Lady? you cut your hair short to look like your mother!"

"Fairy! Dance us a pageant show, on my lap!"

Then all was silent as the Overlord spoke, the air began to grow thin and cold, the minions went silent and still, clenching onto their weapons, making animalistic noise in the back of their throats, as their eyes glowed bright, glowing brighter into torches that looked and locked onto the forest-defenders, choosing their targets, and a dark, uncontrollable chuckle was let loose every once in a while by one of the creatures. The dark armored woman with eyes like golden pearls spoke in her quean and charismatic way—a voice like girly authority, intelligence and danger.

"I reinforce my claim to the throne with my strength and magic; fight me, and you will find my strength equal to that of the eldritch being who haunts your memory of history. You will lose, and your deaths will bring fear and hesitation as your family—your mother and father—bury your mutilated corpse. That petrifying fear will be felt as my kind marches to the curtain walls of your city, and the world will tremble as the march of my infinite horde creates quakes, and slavery or death are the only future your friends and family will have. I demand your submission, fairy. I order your commitment—obey me—swear fealty; I require metal, resources, supplies, and alchemic components. Accept my dominance, and your life will be spared today. I warn you, life is precious—don't throw yours away. Order your guards to bring me what I want, and you may return to your city unharmed.

The bright blue eyes of the fairy looked stoic, as their kind often was, into the impalpable eyes of the macebearing Overlord, and said, a loud whisper on her dainty lips, "Your once poisonous, volcanic land have frozen. Your black skies have given way to light. Your Tower, once thought indestructible, impregnable, lays surmounted in ruin. Your infinite horde dwindles to this handful. You will not succeed in conquest again. The Princess of the Fairies, Cyrielle, hath seen to that. I will crush you here, then report myself to the Queen, and order our armies to sterilize your land once again."

"And even if you do, Evil always finds a way—" mused Gnarl, unheard to anyone back in the recesses of the Tower.

"Don't you dare mention her name," while the Overlord cursed under her breath.

Before the fairy could raise her dainty hand to signal her force's assault, the Overlord swung her gauntleted hand up, and lightning fell from the sky onto the forest ground of the fairy's forces. The Overlord's eyes glowed yellow-red, chaotic evil, her voice sounded like the horns of war like girly rage as the world around her shook and quaked.

"You will hear my thunder,  
And see, my lightning hence.  
Hark, and think, she want'd storms.  
A-flash, and fire, and deafenin' sound!"

The minions were unfazed by the sudden, deafening storm and wind and the blinding flashes of deadly light. Thunder clapped and lit up the world, causing eardrums to burst and trees to snap and uproot. The ground trembled and cowered. Rocks and dirt, shrapnel of nature, flew into the bodies of elfs and minion alike. The minions left alive ran forward in their armor into the fray, unafraid of the lethal magic or the possibility of death. It was the day, yet the sky grew black with storm clouds, obscuring sunlight—the minion's weakness—that managed to penetrate the forest foliage. They ran forward invigorated by the newly darkened day; their swords cut loose into the guts and throats and the regions of the fairy's force.

The casualties of the Overlord's forces quickly mounted as well—by rapid arrow or from a sudden sword—causing the sinewy bodies of the minions to pile up. The rest ran forward in bloodlust, unbothered by their own kind's destruction, unimpeded. The elfin wardens were the bravest on the field, and were the largest threat, veterans of centuries of war. They were dazed, but recovered their senses quickly, unfazed by the dark magic and the piling bodies of their kin around them. They caught minions with their arrows and swords. The minions were no match for an elf in a frontal assault; however, the minion-soldiers were. They went berserk through the elfin ranks, cleaving elfs and spirits and lesser fairies in half with their swords with each swing while being unaffected by returning arrows or nicks of swords. They took mighty blows from the superior skills of the elfs, but they were shock troopers and took them without complaint, and continued on.

Dozens fell to the man-sized swords of the minion-soldiers as they moved wraith-like through the forest floor. One of them had been impaled by the heavy shaft of a spear by a strong-armed elf-man, but the soldier crushed its skull with its bare hands, removed the spear from its body, and moved on, bleeding, but moved on.

The Overlord herself, a woman once called Svetlana, charged forward herself. And in a quick lunge and swinging of her mace, caught the stunned fairy woman across her breast, causing her to implode in a flash of white light. The Overlord went forward as quick as the lightning she had summoned, and moved like the Reaper through the white-armored elfin forces, crushing the men and women who charged her with her mace. With inhuman, deplorable skill and strength she blocked any blow that came near her and reposed and lunged in an immediate, unblockable counterattack, killing her enemies as fast as they could materialize out from the ground.

And in a short time, after hundreds of bodies laid on the ground, the battle ended—the surviving fairies retreated back into the ground from whence they came.

"Hello—is this thing on?" The wheezing, atrophied voice of Gnarl spoke into the Overlord's mind.

"Gnarl?"

Gnarl who assumed the role of Minion Master and her advisor. Gnarl, a former general within her army, and one of the few minions that had survived her thousand year leave of absence. A once strong minion with a rare level of tactical thought was now a wrinkled crone after a millennia; the intelligence that came from living as long as he did was why it was chosen as her advisor.

"Master, it does my black heart good to see the minions in action once again, bleeding and killing and dying for their Overlord. Why, it has been so long since—"

"Get to it, Gnarl," the woman warned.

"Well, master, the minions and I have set up patrols on the roads outside the villages surrounding the Tower, where we have set minions in position to raid the wagons and to capture the travelers that come through. As per your orders, we are capturing those whom we can use as slaves for the Tower's construction, while taking the young women to be used as components for the soldier-minion hives."

"Good, keep me informed. Gather what minions you can and raid a few of the nearby farms and villages. The farmers will quickly give me tribute of their women in the practice of their pagan traditions they think will save them from my wrath. It has been done before."

"Of course, sire. I will have the minions keep their ruddy eyes out for such things."

On the corpses that littered the forest topsoil, yellow orbs of life force floated about—souls that were preparing to transcend this world. While they normally disappeared relatively fast and were invisible to most mortals, an Overlord could take them and keep them from departing; and use them to breed their minion army. The woman eyed them hungrily with her glowing yellow eyes, as they would be the components that would rebuild her once infinite horde.

"Collect all the life force," the Overlord commanded in her delicate voice, it no longer being amplified strongly for the battle.

The minions began to crowd the field collecting the slippery life force and held it up to the woman's left gauntlet for the dark-haired woman to take, saying thing like: "for the masta!", "for yooou," where is was "sucked" up and transported back to the Dark Tower. The minions ran around in great joy like children, mutilating corpses and carrying around dead heads like trophies. They looted pieces of armor and weapons and added them to their personal arsenals and on their person. All around, the bodies of the dead minions lay mixed with the other bodies of the forest folk—with no orbs of life leaving their bodies—if it bothered them, they didn't show it.  
The light of the day returned as quickly as it had went away; the once verdant grass and the white trees were charred black from the storm and were splattered red with blood. In the distance, explosions could be seen and heard—large clouds of fire and smoke filled the air—as the forest was being destroyed. From the checkpoints to the Netherworld, minions came back carrying the toppled trees on their backs, gem-stones from the earth, and endless pearls of life force from the animals and plants.

And work was already being started to establish work camps for the surviving gnomes, halflings, elfs, humans, and the lesser spirits who would work to clear away the rest of the forest and mine for underworldly resources.


	4. Part 1, Chapter 3

Chapter 3—The Judgment of Good And The Hero Chosen

III

Underneath the earth in Fairyworld, beneath a forest far away from the lands of man, halfing, and else, there stood a white-gold palace of lush gardens, ancient forests, and seas that resembled a paradise that not even the minds of the best human poet's could conjure. It was here where the Queen and King of the Fairies held their hall and seat of government.

Inside the opulent and well-lit halls of the castle, Irina the Protector—the fairy who had teleported here with magic just before the Overlord's mace had managed to meet her heart—had just delivered her report on what had just transpired at the First Battle of the Eastern Forest. The Queen and King sat silent at first, exchanging worried looks, as the Fairy Ladies and Lords sat planning and plotting and thinking and conspiring.

"We must raise an army and be ready to destroy and raze the Forbidden Lands before this upstart Overlord can raise a new, proper horde to wreak mayhem and destruction onto our lands again," Irina finished.

Some of the ladies of the court nodded their delicate heads, while other looked to disagree. The opinion was split.

The Queen spoke, and everyone got quiet to hear, "As it stands, that would be impossible—"

And chaos erupted into the room: loud debates of disagreement and agreement. Though, those who disagreed even disagreed with one another—what action they should take—and those who agreed with the Queen still couldn't agree with what that meant. No one knew what to do. The people in the room loudly continued their verbal dispute as the Queen tried unsuccessfully to talk again. Order was only restored when the King demanded it—shouted for the court to quiet—and, even then, the sergeant's mace-bearers were ordered to escort some of the lords and ladies from the room who couldn't stop talking their subjective banter.

The Queen nodded at him, thanking him, and continued, "We cannot expect the Kingdoms of Man, whose soldiers had once served as our Army's vanguards, shieldbearers, and knights, to muster immediately for battle after a millennia of peace. They have grown rich and prosperous and complacent within their lands. And they have not since united since the last Great War that had their kingdoms on the brink of defeat. They will be hesitant in engaging in any wars of such magnitude no matter how much we beg—"

"But surely they must know that while and prolong their time for action, our enemy only grows stronger!" Irina interrupted, shining like a beacon of hope and light and charisma for those ladies and lords who sought immediate action and response in dealing with their age-old enemy, and their most feared foe.

"Such fear will cause them to linger; they fear the Overlord and his horde of endless goblinoids. They will try diplomacy first before sending out their army. Besides, they are currently engaged fighting another enemy—themselves. Not since the Great War have the humans united with themselves under a common banner. Such time has been long and gruesome for them, and they have since created many scars of division and hatred between themselves that will not be resolved soon. It stands to reason that they will send no number of soldiers to aid us."

And many people of the court seemed to be getting won over by the words of their beloved queen. Fair blonde-haired Irina seemed to notice this, for she changed tactics and tried to win over whatever support she could, "Surely, my queen, they will recognize this threat before it is too late. Regardless, we do not need human aid at this stage of the war. If we act swiftly, we can avoid their intervention all together. I will lead my own force to strike before the tiny horde once again becomes an army. Give me whatever forces you can muster of any race—elfes, fairies—surely they will—"

"This Overlord is no fool, Irina. We still have time. No action will be taken without agreement from the people. You will lead no army. But do not fear, Irina, you may just be our hero yet."


	5. Part 1, Chapter 4

Chapter 4—Future Planning And Entertainment

IV

The Overlord Svetlana sat in her throne of black stone inside her still-thawing, frozen Tower. Hot-red, hellish fires burnt around her, and the smell of brimstone filled the room. The woman had made it back unharmed from her expedition—though many of the minions did not share the same outcome—and looked to be in good spirits. Though a lot of the minions failed to return from the expedition, many more could be raised from the life force that had been collected.

The figure of the woman sat on her throne looking relaxed and content, tired, but healthier than she had before: her skin had gotten some its color restored, and her short, brown hair looked darker and her eyes burnt a steady glow. Minion attendants had removed her from her armor upon her return, and she now seemed much smaller and more delicate than her armor had made her seem whilst in the forest. She was wrapped around in blankets, wearing dresses, and had grey rabbit fur slippers on her small feet. The woman seemed pleased at her success in battle, it was like getting to stretch one's arms after a long night's sleep.

Gnarl, her wrinkled and whiskered advisor, stood beside her, wringing its hands as it gave its mistress a sidelong glance, then down the hall that was under construction, that was coming along nicely with already smoothed, tiled floors and fully restored windows. The construction was still going on, and would take a while for the repairs to be completed. It would require many more resources to finish, but they had time, as the forces of Good had become complacent and passive in her absence—ready for her to destroy and plunder once again once the strength of her forces returned.

"Exeunt the clowns!" Gnarl commanded loud and proud.

The mechanicals came into the room from side doors and took positions in the center of the room from where the woman sat surrounded by new personal guards—who wore very sharp black armor and carried heavy maces (to avoid what happened to Mutton from happening again)—who would execute the player-minions if they uttered anything to offend the one who sat on the throne.

The lady crossed her legs, right over left, and rested her head on her arm as she reclined into her throne, watching as the actors started their performance.

Two of the three minions began to march forward, while the drummer beat a marching tune as though a parade was in progress, and the third minion stood and faced the throne, and as it spoke it swung around a sword to further reinforce and emphasis and its point, "Our Lady hath insulted forest home, and hath plunderèd herself much booty."

The three minions formed a line together as the drummer changed its rhythm to a new steady, even beat as the players spoke in pitiful sequence.

"Robbed fairies of plunder, and took their trees."

"Along with stuff to build new minion hives."

"One hundred potent women in a pot."

"Stir with magic and follow recipe!"

The woman on the throne looked unamused, bored, as she ate her dinner—venison that was hunted down by her minions from the now-ruined forest—brought to her by a serving wench, a girl enslaved from one of the nearby villages (one of the hundred women to come). The deplorable woman had told Gnarl to find entertainment for her while she ate (this wasn't what she had had in mind) and he said that he had the perfect thing. The woman looked bored and displeased, ready to stop them right away; she was about ready to tell them to leave, as they were beginning to ruin her dinner.

Gnarl, seeing this, cleared his throat, stopping the players on stage, and said, "How about a song then, my liege?"

The woman nodded slowly, immediately regretting it, and Gnarl barked, "Drummer!"

The drummer-minion played a joyful tune, like a wroth naked rabbit on a stake, while the three minions sang slightly together.

"The hangèd lady swung—"

"Around. Hark, her screams could be—"

"Heard: what fun! The rope got—"

"Cut; her throat unbound, the—"

"Sound pierced ears like tortur'd hounds!"

The mechanicals—the clowns—danced like they had acid on their feet. They flipped and rolled like excited puppies, as they looked bright-eyed towards their Overlord—who sat like a queen on her throne—for her approval and words of what she thought.

The lady looked appalled, and grimaced with sullen displease as the creatures began to wrap nooses around their thin necks and tug at them, the minions laughing, while the woman debated in her head whether or not to actually hang the players off the Tower with the ropes they carried.

"That was 'The Hangèd Lady', my lady," Gnarl said at her side, "This next one's called, 'The Fairy', composed by Garble himself, my Dark Lady! I might make something of these lot yet."

The drummer began to beat a new tune, his guess at what a romance sounded like. The minions all stood with their backs straight and looked at each other sleazily, slicking back the strands of stringy hair on their heads with their bony fingers. Two of them pawed at one another's chest while the third frolicking around them in a prance, tossing the bones of rodents around the two as though they were flower petals.

The taller minion said, while holding the shorter one in his arms, in a poor falsetto, his attempt at a woman's voice, "Oh, damsel, wench, you seem to have savèd me."

The shorted one spoke, an even shriller pitch, the Overlord, "Bah, brazen cutthroats can't stop me! For I—"

"Hush, sweet girl. Let me kiss you forward hence."

"But, fair thing—I be a girl same as thou!"

"Nonsense: come, I know who you are, Dark Lord."

"Foul fairy, blasted fiend: thou hast tricketh me. Minions attack!"

The minion running in circles stopped, and moved towards the audience near the throne, blocking the sight of the actors playing the part of the two infamous lovers, Svetlana and Cerve.

The minion got into a hunched position, in a clear imitation of Gnarl, and said in old croak, "And hence, Minions poured forth from the bowels of the Earth, and attckèd fairy princess. Only to be quickly slaughtered by her magic and the point of her sword. A fate that was shared by endless other waves of minions; who learnt that day, that against fairy royalty, a blind charge, a frontal assault, didn't work on them as well as it worked on their lesser kin. Nevertheless, our liege, our dark fiend, our fiendish quean, found herself alone against this fairy monstrosity—one on one with white magic and sword against black magic and mace—and quickly discovered herself to be nearly equal in strength and intelligence with the beautiful fairy. So, to cut all short, they both fled artistically in retreat, calling their first duel a draw. But they would soon see each other again; wherever the Overlady went to raid and sack, the fairy Cerve came to try and stop her. The Overlord took to the land like a scythe to harvest, and Cerve responded like a blight—she was the Hero to the people of Good. And in a turn of bizarre events they finally learnt, truly discovered, that they didn't actually want to kill each other! As these things often seem to happen. The Overlord would let the Fairy Princess escape after having grasped her pale throat with her own black claws—she once even saved her from a dragon—and when the Fairy Princess would have a divine arrow leveled towards our Lady's black hear, she would move the bow at the last minute to the left a bit, causing immense and undescribable pain for our master but, luckily, not actual death. And, using the power of love, they eloped together in Fairyworld to take a break from the war, or so our Overlord naively thought, for fairies are forces of Good—no matter how good they are at seducing someone! For ten days they loved at each other, kissing and hugging and making glorious love—baaa! However, in our world, things hadn't been going so great—"

The Overlord threw the knife she had used for dinner directly at the minion speaking in embarrassed anger, impaling its face as it fell to the floor writhing in pain and agony, as it clawed onto its bleeding face in immense pain at the would be disfiguring injury. The blushing woman ordered the guards around her to move forward with their maces and kick and beat the rest of the players and the drummer for a long while as their screams reverberated across the Tower, as the woman went behind her throne to climb the stairs up into her chamber.

The Overlord, a woman once known as Svetlana, perched over the end of a wooden table at her study. With her pale hands she worked a pile of glowing red cinders, roots, and bits of metal into a combustible pyre. Around she used charcoal to stain complex symbols onto the table's surface. In the dark, her eyes shined a sickly yellow, but in the light of a nearby candle, her eyes glowed a vapid pale-brown, lost in work and concentration.

Once again, she was wrapped solidly in fur coats and blankets, as she detested the cold. A large, blazing hearth burnt behind her, but she didn't care—she loved the pleasant heat it gave—they now had plenty of wood to burn (strictly speaking, all of it was meant to go to her war forges that were under construction, but she thought a few logs for a fire in her chamber didn't do any one no good, so it was fine, she didn't bother with the worry about wasting fuel). She thought as she read from a stack of red-bounded books and scribbled neat, sprawling lines onto sheets of paper for notes of her own method and thoughts and equations.

Her eyes glowed slightly red as she spoke; her soft voice full of girlish authority. Her head became lightheaded, her cheeks gave off blushing heat and her heart rate increased. She spoke.

" _Evil spirit, thou hellish fiend,  
_ _Come to me, your Dark Queen.  
_ _Your mistress, who hath plant'd  
_ _You in view of mine enemies._

 _Thous evil spirit, red of light,  
_ _I hath need of knowledge.  
_ _I summon you! Bind to me:  
_ _Thou evil spirit, red of light._

 _And great, wandering eyes;  
_ _The eternal gaze asleep above,  
_ _Time t'wake and see and tell.  
_ _You, my spy, I summon forth!_ "

A crimson light flashed within the room, and the symbol glowed as the burning pyre gave way to the apparition of a red, sleepy girl who seemed to hover over the table. The girl seemed to blush when she saw the woman over her, smiled, and jumped happily.

"Svetlana, you're back," she said fondly.

And the woman smiled fondly back at the girl, and said, "I'm back. How have you been since my long absence?"

"Sleeping, I refused to serve that Gnarl who fashioned himself as leader in your absence. You can't guess how often he rehearsed this spell, but he could never succeed.

"You slept for a thousand years?"

The girl went to lay down on the table, perhaps to mimic the woman who was reclining back into her chair, and said, "I'm a spirit: a thousand years is like a week to me."

"It was like ten days for me."

There was an awkward silence in the room as the girl struggled to shyly ask, "Are you going to kill her, Cerve?"

The woman's face looked sad, her heart was broken—she curled blankets around herself for further warmth, and said "Yes, she tricked me, so she deserves my revenge."  
As the woman spoke, she felt ill—emotional upset in her belly—and knew that she was lying the the girl. She wanted to cry, as killing her Cerve would be impossible for her, she knew it, and the thought upset her. The woman looked at the girl, who looked up and seemed to share her understanding.

"Would you like a report on the situation?" The muliebrous apparition asked quietly, her red eyes never leaving the sad look on the woman's face.

"Yes."

The girl spoke jovial, trying to change the dismal mood within the room, "I can see the human kingdoms, the fairy's state, and the remains of who were once your allies. What should I report first on?"

The woman thought for a moment, and said, "The humans."

"Certainly, a thousand years ago they had united together with the magical creatures of good. After your disappearance, they thought for sure you had been defeated, ma'am. A few of the more nobler kings and princes, who are more bound by honor, thought it best not to jump to any hasty conclusions, and to continue the war as though you could return at any moment, or until your body was found—least it turn into a trap laid by you to get them to drop their guard. It was this faction that would keep fighting and keep vigilant for another decade or so after the others—the fairy kingdoms and the remaining humans—officially declared the war to be over, and it was them who destroyed your Dark Tower—they never found your body, of course."

"At this point, the other kings had to believe that you were gone for good, and decided to stop their campaigns as well, so that they could focus on rebuilding the damages to their kingdoms. And they attributed your disappearance to be your death by the hands of some unknown heroes in some far away, remote location who merely vanquished you and didn't bother to tell anyone. And soon, the various kings began to disagree with one another; the kings who wanted to find further evidence of your fate fought with those who wanted to forget about you. This caused one of the first rifts between the kingdoms that continue to this day along with many others."

"How long did it take for my forces to fall after my disappearance?"

"A few years, my lady; the minions and your allies still fought, of course, but suffered a great loss of morale and momentum without you leading them. After all, an empire needs someone as emperor or empress. And without your tactical brilliance planning their battles, defeats became commonplace until your allies were either defeated or went into hiding. Your minions held out the longest, and they held out here for a long time, making their last stand on the parapets and battlements of the Dark Tower, but look around and take a guess who won."

"And after the War?"

"Humans were ushered into a period of prosperity, peace, and growth that still continues to this day, blaa! Go and kill them soon, my lady. Today, their unity, of course, has seen degenerated into alright war with each other from various petty reasons such as greed, rivalry, and tradition that keep their armies well paid for and well trained."  
"How strong are their armies?"

"Perhaps the strongest in the land if they were to unite, m'lady, which will prove nearly impossible for them to do, but I think you could just be the catalyst that will reunite them if you aren't careful," she warned.

"I am always careful. Although, it is of no concern—the minions are a warrior race, and warriors will face any foe without fear. Let the entire land unite against us, and we will destroy them as we did so in the past. Now, tell me of the fairies."

"The magical creatures: fairies, elfs, spirits, and the other creatures of the forests have united together under the leadership of the Queen and King of the fairies. They inhabit their forests and rivers and live more or less the same way that they have lived in your time. These races have a different concept of time than humans—you still seem to follow the human calendar, m'lord."

The dark-haired woman frowned at that, but ignored it, and continued, "And Cerve, Cyrielle—where is she?"

The girl closed her eyes for a moment and was silent, then said, "I don't see her; she may not have left Fairyland yet."

The wooden door to the study opened and Gnarl walked in, the Minion Master and her advisor. It wrung its hands as it crossed the room, balancing a crystalline torchlight attached to its back by a stick (to light its way through the various dark corridors of the Tower). He looked at the Overlord in an ugly way and said, "Ah, master, I see you have gotten the Eye to work again. Everything seems to be coming along just badly now that you've returned, my Dark Lord."

The crimson girl on the table stuck out her ghostly tongue at the creature and moved closer to the woman.

"Gnarl, what do you have to report?" The woman asked.

"Oh, just a summary list of what was plundered from the raid."

"Go on."

"We have secured enough wood to build a ladder to the moon, m'lady, and have collected a plethora of life force that will bring our minion horde up in the thousands. We now have hundreds of the reds and greens, brown and blue at our disposable. Oh, but do try not to dispose of them too soon, my lord. We have also gathered the needed components to make new minion hives, which are piled in the spawning pits waiting for you. And, finally, all the metal we stole and took from the earth is being melted down by Giblet in the forge; we are also salvaging the rusted metal that was around the Tower. We should have a new arsenal of weapons and armor on the way shortly, my lord."

The woman nodded and said, "Good, use half of the life force to make more minions and tell Giblet that I want uniform munition armor and weapons to equip my horde by the end of the week. Send more minions down there to help—I need this down. I will be down to the Spawning Pits shorty to make the new hives. Have the stations prepared for my arrival."

"Yes, sire," Gnarl hissed but lingered, wanting to wait around and see what the glowing red girl had to say.

"Tell me about my former allies."

"Yes, mistress, in your absence, heros and human armies have seen to the almost complete extermination of Evil: the mountain goblins dwindle to only a few tribes in caves, afraid to step out into the light of day, trolls have been subjugated by the elfs and are used as guardians for their temples, vampirism is now a rare disease along with lycanthropy, and all books of the Black Arts have been burned."  
"Is there anyone considered evil who could swear loyalty to me?"

"No one, unless you corrupt them."

"Gnarl, I will spread my tendrils to the nearest towns and villages; their labor will be done for me, their riches will be given to me, and their lives will be devoted to me! Have all available minions given weapons and arms. I want them ready to leave by nightfall.


	6. Part 1, Chapter 5

Chapter 5—Cerve

V

After the long events of the day, the Overlord crept under the warm blankets of her chamber-bed, her form still recovering from leaving Fairyland after a thousand years. It was like body had been awake the whole time, but in a stasis that left her mind occupied, her body unaged. She felt tired, and during the battle earlier, it took all her magic and inhuman strength to stay awake, but now, she knew, it was time to sleep.

She yawned and rested her head and dark hair against the pillow and mattress as she closed her eyes and let her mind wander in fantasy. Minions could be heard up all night from her open chamber window: brawling, screaming, and abusing the slave. While it didn't help her get faster asleep, the noise quickly became constant and backdrop, and her mind began to enter into the daze of deep sleep.

She couldn't recall when she had fallen asleep that night, but it didn't really matter. The dream had been all that mattered to remember. It had made her truly happy with girly bliss.

She dreamt as soon as her carriage had slept. Her pale, youthful form was in a snowy forest of her dreams and imagination. She wore a red and white peasant sarfan like what they wore in the wooden villages to the north-east, which had once been the Overlord's adopted home, a lifetime ago. The girl found the dress warm and soft despite the cold, and it reminded her of her girlhood, so she wore it blushing and enticed. She wandered through snow and trees until she had become aware the fairy Cyrielle was with her.

Svetlana's voice faltered and broke, the diminutive, "Cerve—"

She couldn't finish her sentence. Her vapid brown eyes stared hearts at the woman next to her—Cerve: tall, strong, womanly. She was tall, taller than her—what she first didn't prefer now seemed trivial and meaningless—her eyes were pale-blue like silver diamonds, and her braided hair was jet-black. She was beautiful.

"Hello, Svetlana, my love."

They held hands, both white and warm, together as Cerve led Svetlana with a happy, upbeat pace to somewhere. Svetlana walked happily with her, her eyes never leaving the other woman. She had to force herself to think—that this was all a dream—which was hard, as this was Cyrielle's world. She tugged at the sleeve of her lover's arm, forcing her to stop. And the snow was silent as they stopped walking.

"How do I know this isn't some trick, that my body hasn't been asleep for centuries, eternity, as we speak.

"It is not," she said.

"How can I trust you."

"I have never lied to you."

"That doesn't mean I trust you; that doesn't mean you haven't been untrue."

Despite what she said, Svetlana still walked arm in arm with Cerve as she let the fairy lead her deep into the woods until they reached a small cottage frozen static in the snow, untouched by time. Svetlana, thinking better of herself, prayed and bowed to each corner of the house. As she walked in, she thought to herself that it was rather cozy.

"Go back out and collect some firewood, love," Cerve told her as she took off her fur coat and began to make herself comfortable in the hut.

"Okay," the woman obeyed, and didn't come back until her arms were full of sticks, her dress was a mess, and her cheeks flushed high color from the cold.

"Your cheeks are scarlet, was it cold outside?" Here," she offered, handing the other woman a cup of hot tea, as a large fire had already been burning, but Svetlana didn't notice.

The deplorable woman who embodied hate, now dressed as a peasant girl, went to clumsily offer the fairy a kiss, then sat down on a wooden chair by the fire for warmth. Cerve pulled up a chair next to her and sat, and they leaned against each other as the warmth from the hearth glowed gold-amber on their faces.

Svetlana muttered, as if half-asleep, "Is this where you have been all this time? In some hut in the forest without your love?"

Cerve shyly smiled and said, "No, I've been too busy, but I wanted to see you again."

"I wanted to see you again."

And they retired to a small bed by the fire, and rested cheek to cheek in each other's arms, their sarafans draped over the chairs. And like a dream, the night passed too quickly and with unreal logic. Everything was rushed, vague—everything was out of place—and none of it felt too real, but to Svetlana it was nice. They rested lips apart as they whispered into the night. Svetlana found her words slipping out of her mouth as though she had been enchanted.

"Why did you destroy the forest?" The fairy asked, sounding disappointed.

"I needed the life force from the trees, animals, forestlings, and plants—"

"Why did you destroy it, dear, there is no way for it to be repaired. It was a waste. It was pointless, as though you'd destroyed art."

"Does an Overlord need reason for her conquests?"

"No, but a human does."

Svetlana felt tired, which was odd, as she was in a dream (was she?). Somewhere in her mind that rested her logic thought that the fairy had drugged her, drugged the tea. Or was it magic? Was it love? Cerve bit her eat with tiny teeth and a lovely mouth. Her warm breath falling into the woman's ear.

"You know you can't keep doing this," she warned, "sooner or later you will be destroyed."

"No force on this planet can kill me."

"I could've," she said.

"If you could you would've. You know I am your Zahir, and you are my Funes. I am immune to you as you're of me. If my magic could kill you it would've—my strength being sufficient though my mind weak."

"Something could," she protested.

"No."

"Something will."

"You know as well as I that dichotomy is a fallacy constructed by philosophers. Men are not inherently evil or good—there exists an inbetween. So the logic of the hero, a foe who can vanquish any villain, is false. There is no intangible force or the will of God focusing his might, guiding his fate. My strength has surpassed that of any man. It will take an army to face me, and then they would only slow me."

The other woman laughed, eyes glowing with malice, "My, is that _arrogance_ , love? What happened to my shy little girl. I've never heard you talk this much. Did you miss me that badly? It's been only a few days since we've last saw."

"You're wrong, you've robbed me a millenia. It's been untold centuries since we've really saw each other. And this is a dream. How do I know it hadn't been a dream in Fairyworld? Answer me."

"It wasn't," she answered.

The woman relaxed. And Cerve reinforced her spell that had almost been broken. Her mind needed to be dulled, not cleared with fixated anger. She leaned in closer, nudged her body against that of Svetlana's, and whispered the words of the spell, and the woman's eyes turned vapid, remote.

"What are your future plans," she suggested. "Who are you attacking next, my love—where are the targets?"

"Villages—villages around me are going to fall."


	7. Part 2, Chapter 1

Part 2, Chapter 1—Revanchist

I

"Little rusalka, don't try to hide. I will find you. Stay there in your watery basin, nymph, divine, maiden! Oh, wait for me, and I will gladly take the time to come unseen."

As moist Mother Earth eats the bodies of the dead, so too did this beast eat human beings. Milk, milk, milk, a bovine steer steered towards sin. A benign appearance begot malicious hate. An ugly mug created its disdain.

The forest was a place where black trees rose up like a throng of marching towers, a city of wood, crowded with life. Light fell through the tall canopies amber-gold onto the forest floor; shadows were casted, and colorful calomiles and red, cankerous fungi dotted the foliage that forest animals played in. The sound of a rushing river could be heard nearby.

"Little rusalka," deep down in the forest intruded a small, pathetic creature, who spoke to itself (ignoring that this was not normal) with many white, protruding teeth and a slobbering tongue. Its eyes glowed red as it walked being disfigured and lame, hindered by injury. It cowered from all the things in its way: the chirping birds, the wind on branches, as if it were afraid of everything.

Through the forest it hobbled, over rock and stump, crossing deeper and deeper into the depth of trees. It wore all black, and kept a hood over its face to hide from the sun, wearing heavy cloaks and robes despite the hot summer heat. It bayed, panted, and whined feral, constant noise as it opened its bovine maw and transpired gross sweat (the smell!). Its eyes glowed a sickly puce as it prowled nervously towards the river, trying to avoid being seen by certain, faraway eyes.

It crawled and dripped and snorted swine-like barks as it cowered to hide its face—paranoid of it being seen—keeping the bovine mug pointed low to the ground. It panted and muttered black curses as it struggled with pain to walk with its crippling injuries and deformities. It cursed its lot in life, how he—once a mere man—had been judged ugly and dumb. He cursed bad fortune, how he was the one who had to suffer deformed and unloved (especially unloved), and had to comport himself out of public eye out of paranoia of their contempt.

And all around him, he could see soubrette vilas, forest nymphs, singing and laughing and loving life and one another. They were beautiful, with vibrant hair and changeling-eyes, rosy cheeks, and blissful lips. They didn't see the creature under them (as they lounged on tree branches in their green short dresses), as the creature hid itself, crawling under roots and through bushes, as it could move completely silent if it wished—moving through the forest floor without so much as snapping a twig or tearing a leaf)—unless it wanted.

Thinking themselves to be alone in distaff privacy, they sang in drone.

 _"Forest home, our Motherland:  
_ _Prancing deer and chirping birds,  
_ _Growing trees come lend a hand!  
_ _Forest home, our Motherland.  
_

 _Early June, summer fest.  
_ _Healthy forest, growing up;  
_ _Plant more seeds, no time to rest.  
_ _Early June, summer fest!_

 _Look there yond'r, our sorcerer!  
_ _We're blushing red asking him:  
_ _To sit by us, please good sir.  
_ _Look there yond'r, our sorcerer!"_

The vilas stopped singing once they realized that they had company—for they had spotted the black form of the dwarfish man under them—and laughed as they watched the black creature crawling through the mud and sticks. They sneered and pointed at it with their pretty, pale hands, covering their tiny teeth as they laughed and laughed and laughed till the cadervous man turned red in the cheeks, and ran away to the cascading sound of a river-basin, cheeks burning with shame, eyes alight with hate.

In the heart of the forest, silver-white trees rose to the foggy heavens with long, billowing branches that held red-gold leaves. Brazen-stone pathways winded to and fro through the trees at random, and the blue sky above blew cool wind, a vanguard against the hot, white sun of day.

A man, kept young through magic, watched the trees tremble and break as a lone wanderer—a leshy—a giant tutelary spirit forgot to watch its step. The man stared up far and out, watching the gods and goddesses dance and dine and giants and wars far out into the cosmos and heavens, but he did not watch what under his own nose, as he considered it, that is whatever transpired in his own forest, not worth his time.

He spoke many ancient languages out loud, communing with the druids and bears and spirits of the forest. He breathed life into the rivers and under the earth. Plants grew at his feet and died with his touch. Moist Mother Earth eats the bodies of the dead, so too did he bury and decay the transgression of worry.

Off the calm river, water pooled into a grassy swamp—the basin—where a naked woman bathed, and a pair of red eyes watched from the pancium of watergrass, careful not to get in.

"Little rusalka, wonder thou upon my voice—think it be that of a prince?" It croaked like the frogs that swam in the swamp.

"Nah!" She called out, looking around curiously and peeling back the plants to see, unable to find the face and lips of the voice that was speaking, "For I hear a shrill canker, an ugly bark!" She sang, sounding very pleased with herself and enjoying the sport.

"Methinks you've got water in thy delicate, pale eats, my little rusalka!" It called out, and said, "Maybe it be my dog—great big spaniel—that I have nearby that you hear!"

"I thinketh not," the haughty woman said, "Where be it you hide, foul thing?" The woman asked with a white smile on red lips as she kept looking around, enjoying the game of hide and seek.

"Be it not the start of Juno? Come find me!" The creature called, trying to get her out of the water, where the water spirit couldn't drown him.

"Does thou fear my sissy arms? A prince you say thou are? I think not. No prince of mine will be anything short of fearless," the unhappy woman dunked her head under the water so that only her stare pierced the surface, anchoring herself in the water and refusing to look for the face of the voice any longer.

"I'm sure that that same line hath woèd many of thy former suitors—if your skin hadn't before—who rushed in to be thine embrace. Pleasant were their last moments, I am sure, but I, myself, belong to a caste of intelligence. It is well and good for a foolish prince or bogatyr to die for love, but it is when two lovers are still alive that they may enjoy life."

"If thou are not a prince in heat nor a Hero in seek of mine aid, then hath my father truly granted you permission to meet with me? To voyeur upon my bathing form? I think not. Is he perchance busy with his catamite? Is that how you got pass? I would scurry if I were you, stupid rat, for if he finds you here with me, he will kill you as sure as night comes after day."

As quiet as a mouse, the dwarf nudged closer and closer to the rusalka, not making a sound. He almost croaked once or twice in nervous habit, but managed to swallow the noise just in time, until he was within arms reach of the bathing water spirit, her white rump in front of him.

The creature said in new desperation, red eyes gleaming with lust, "Little rusalka, would you like to come behind this bush I rest behind and kiss me, he who can be your prince?"

The eyes of the rusalka flashed with mean malice, and taunted, "Aha, ugly toad, cancerous ant—oh how I dare someone to find something more horrible sounding than thou! Maybe if I kiss you, you'll turn into a pretty prince," she joked. "How I hope you don't look so keen to approach—if I drowned you, I'd have to find a new lake—as your ill body will poison my lovely abode."

The rusalka grinned and started to climb out of her basin, the sun catching her pale, unclothed skin. Then suddenly, the sky burst open in a portal of tempest, a loud explosion, and the old sorcerer—the water spirit's father—managed to materialize between them, the woman grinned ready to see the hidden man skinned, and in an instant he brought up a magic staff to his hands.

Spoke a few words into it, and the black creature found itself writhing in pain on the ground.

The old man spoke, his voice full of life despite his withered appearance, "Fie, fie on thy cadaver. Thou shall not 'tempt to deflower my daughter."

"Wait, might sage! I but have been merely in talk with your daughter! Never had my intentions been hounded by lust. I swear on my soul!"

"Fie on your black blood, evil fiend. No creature but Evil can spin lies as easily as you!"

And suddenly the harsh look on his archaic eyes drew dimmer, his mouth grew agape in profound horror, muttering garbled words. The black creature's eyes flared open in hate as he saw the old man's grip on his source of power—his staff—weaken. The water spirit came forward upon seeing her father's worried state, and asked, putting a delicate hand fondly on his back, "What is it, Father?"

Loud explosion and clouds of smoke filled the distance, causing the trio to jolt in sudden panic and face its direction. In the distance, black smoke and flames dotted the sky, and countless more of the explosion began to follow, filling the once verdant sky and country with its chaotic disturbance.

The old man's voice flared with fear, and said, looking centuries older, "The Overlord has returned."

The ugly dwarf knew not of what an Overlord was; however, his eyes still saw the weakened grip on the wizard's source of power, and took advantage of this moment of distraction, and counted, for once, his blessings. His clawed hands, as quick as a snake, plucked the wooden staff from the man's hands, and the wizard looked on in horror as the staff came down and down and down upon his brow, knocking him to the ground—now a powerless old man—and the black creature kept hitting the old man hard until his body went limp.


	8. Part 2, Chapter 2

Chapter 2—Irina

II

Irina, the heroine commissioned by Fairy council, led a column of horsemen. Their faces white, they were dressed in white, and they all rode white horses. They marked the day. The sun rose and followed them.

They moved as magical beings did, with inhuman gait: never showing signs of fatigue, never missing a beat, and having no conversations between themselves. The horses pranced and whinied. The forest rose around them, primal, virgin. This was an old forest. One which no human has ever entered.

Irina, born a fairy, friend of elf and human mortals. As she led her mare by her reins, her hand absentmindedly groped at the spot above her heart where the Overlord's mace was almost brought down, "That would have killed me," she thought. A fairy, a deity in her own right, one who the elves worship, consult for leadership, who humans fear like devils or demons. Fairies, real fairies, are a bit of both, she thought.

It would take time to cross this forest, the party knew, but were undaunted by the task. The elfin woman calculated, it would take a human army three months to cross the forest, six months if they fell victim to any magic spells or the mischief of forest nymphs or villians; it would take an elfin army one month, but they had nothing to fear from the forest spirits. Her party, the journey would take them a single week. Though they moved with the speed of magic, the horsemen who embodied the day would have to move ahead at midday, being replaced by others.

It was her task to consult a wizard, one who consults the stars in the sky and knows the procession of time not from the days and weeks but by the precession of the earth through space. He was all knowing, all powerful, he could speak to giants and deities. He was the father of the nymphs and water spirits. He was a hermit who never tallied with the affairs of the earth, but would have to do so today, the woman decided. It was her duty to make him. If she failed in anyway it could mean the loss of the war before it began.

"How soon do you leave," she asked the horseman next to her.

"When midday approaches," he said, "in an hour from now. It will take only a few minutes for the others to find you."

"I'm not scared," she inferred.

The white face of the horseman looked on detached, remote, and said in a vapid tongue, "Of this forest, you should be. Not even the fairy royalties can count a single friend here, if you are attacked, no aid will come to you."

"What enemies could attack me here. Evil beings would be killed as soon as they stepped foot onto this soil. The wizard will make sure of that," she decided.

"I am not so sure, there seems to be great confusion within these hallowed woods. This is a border world, miss Irina, the laws of the world you are familiar with do not have the same meaning here. The magic is stronger, more primal: primordial forces stalk these woods. Forces of the like no mere immortal like yourself could hope to best."

"I am a hero," she reminded, "like the personas of the old tales: pure, good, strong, and brave, with gifts and knowledge that can best any witch that comes my way."

Without a word, he sped away with his fellow brethren of the day. Morning had passed, and marked midday. She was left alone with her mare; together, they stopped by a bubbling creek to rest. The lady dismounted, her blonde-white hair cascading down as she removed her helmet.

The horseman's words discomforted her, so she asked a fish within the creek, "What do you know of the trouble that hangs about this place," she asked, and asked again, "Is there anything I could do to help."

The fish popped her head from the water, and spoke, "I fear I cannot offer any aid, as my home is not quiet but I am not loud. The lord who's the creek and I travel together. I am faster and stronger, but he can go on forever. I am afraid that there's not much I can say myself, as if I leave these waters it is I who will die. That's why I have no information to offer."

"Thank you," she thanked, and turned to the birds, who she offered some grain, "Hello, sparrow, may I ask thee of the affliction that troubles this forest?"

The black bird turned his head to the side, looking at the white woman with its one eye, and said, "It is the dead of the sorcerer."

"What? Is that true?" She asked in shock.

"It is the dead of the sorcerer," it squawked.

"How did this happen? Was it the Overlord, noble sir?"

"It is the dead of the sorcerer."

"Who caused the death of the sorcerer?"

"It is the dead of the sorcerer."

She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, controlling her anger. She thanked it and left. She heard laughter behind her, and turned seeing no one.

"Up here lesser sister," Irina looked up and saw two forest nymphs sitting on tree branches.

Irina sighed, nymphs were always hard to deal with. She saw that they were beautiful, but that was no surprise. They were primordial, almost as old as the earth. They have been here since the first sapling sprouted in the soil before there was ever a forest.

"Nymphs, honored vilas, know you of the sorcerer's death? What can you tell me. I was meant to see him."

"You still can," one said, and the other agreed, "It's just that, well, you'll do most of the talking."

"He's dead then," Irina asked, knowing that the nymphs didn't have the capacity for feelings such as empathy, as they have remained alive for a long time, and have remained unchanged, long before either elves, humans, or fairies had achieved that feat of compassion as evolution brought change over time, such a capacity being analogous between the different races.

To the nymphs, and the other, older, races that inhabited the forest, death was natural. Death of a person should bring someone no more displeasure than a change in the wind. Even someone as special as their progenitor was not enough to kindle a tear. The two girls looked at the fairy and laughed, seeing her displeasure, how it crinkled her face. Their faces never changed—cheeks high color, skin lightly tanned from the sun, and braided hair—so any change was funny to them.

"Oh he's quite dead," the nymphs agreed, "I'd say it was only a day ago, when parts of other forest exploded. Now, that was unfortunate."

Irina, still bothered from the statement before, asked, "He's both of your fathers, isn't he? Won't you miss his company, and wish his death could be reversed?"

"Oh, we have the magic for that," they said, "so do the rusalky, witches, and vily, that is us, the nymphs."

"Then may you please restore his life back to the mortal plane so that I may meet him, and ask for a favor."

"Oh, it'll be easier for you to find his closer daughter, a rusalka, who remains beside the body. She was there when it happened, and can tell you more, every rumor we've heard had been told by her."

"About the explosion that you heard, do you know it was by the Overlord?" I asked.

"Overlord, he sounds like a king. It doesn't matter who it is, however, as this realm is a border world between your world and another. The explosion we heard came from your side, meaning that it is not our concern, but yours."

The fairy Irina thanked them for their time, and left to remount her mare. She found the white beast with her head still bent towards the creek, nipping at the damp grass nearby. And she saw a familiar face who had their hand on the horse, brushing its mane. The princess of the fairies, Cyrielle.

"Hello, Irina," the princess said.

"Cyrielle," Irina said, and kneeled, then rose again.

"I do not have much time for talk, my friend. Forget about seeing the wizard, there is no time for that anymore. Please, our heroine, take this sword and charm, and may it serve you well in your time of need. It is time for you to take fight once again against the Overlord, the lady of whom I know you had lost against not but a day ago, but fight again with bravery you must, kill her if you must. I know her next target, a village on the hills. You must be there to oppose her, and if you are too slow, then you must be the one to swear vengeance to the gods for them. Return from whence you came, turn back, and if you hurry you can get there by nightfall."

"Of course, m'lady, I will follow your order, but I must ask—where have you been? You've been absent for a millenia. I know you haven't seen peace since before the Great War a thousand years ago. Only ten days have passed for both you and the Overlord. You've missed a millennia of peace, of art, of joy, of family. Are you sure your mind is in the right place, m'lady?"

"Of course, my mind, like you have said, is tuned to war. We have entered into a time of war once again. We must not forget how easy it is for the Overlord to amass her armies and how trivial it is to corrupt our allies into enemies. Unlike you and the council, I have not forgotten how it is to fight. Obey me, go, you are our heroine, it must be you to oppose the Overlord," she repeated.

"But where will you go, m'lady?"

"It's hard to explain, but I think the world had missed something very important within these woods, while the world and every god watched the Overlord's return, something evil has manifested itself within these forests. I fear it might have even escaped from the realm that neighbors ours. If it is, and if it truly possesses the power that could slay a wizard, then such a fiend cannot be ignored. I must track this foe down before the trail runs cold."


	9. Part 2, Chapter 3

Chapter 3—The Black Dwarf

III

"The great wizard don Koldun Boy Yar Soldat," the black dwarf fashioned for himself, and sang.

The black dwarf danced around a yellow fire within a cavernous chasm. It couldn't stop laughing; for once in his life, joy and excitement were his to be had. It flared its garments in the air, twirling around like a ballerina or spinning top. It sang, raising its staff in the air in a flair of arcane cloak and dagger.

 _First things first,  
_ _I heal my  
_ _Legs. Goes burst  
_ _The pain.  
_ _Make right as  
_ _Rain. Next my  
_ _Face, collapse  
_ _The shame._

The creature's curse had lifted—its injury fixed, its pox repaired, its confidence soared—the pain in the dwarf's feet subsided, it's face was cured of blemishes. It removed its hood, and happy red eyes looked out, still an abomination to all thing beauty. Its skin dusty with coal, beard frayed, ears pointed, fangs protruded. Its hunched back hobbled over to a scum-covered puddle, and it rejoiced, "Oh happy days, oh happy days, the face of Koldun has been returned."

It spoke to itself through habit, "Now it's perhaps time to return to my cave—nicer than this chasm—filled with gold mines. With working legs and fixed hands I can pick for gold—when did I get to be so bold."

It sang again.

" _Oh look at me,  
_ _A sight to see;  
_ _One full of mystery._

 _Who's back is sore,  
_ _But never bored.  
_ _S'been shorted luck for_

 _All his life. I  
_ ' _m finally bye  
_ _Not ready to die  
_

 _A hunched crook:  
_ _A staff I took_ —  
 _With its magic I now I look  
_

 _Like a royal prince.  
_ _From now, girls hence  
_ _Will never wince._ "

The dwarf Koldun knelt over with a spring in his gait and created a new stack of wood from the sticks he had gathered outside, and arranged them to be kindled. He used his newfound power, granted to him by the staff he stole, and conjured a fire with just a moment of thought.

The yellow flamed danced before his blacken eyes. The power he now possessed. The repercussions for all those who had ever laughed at and bullied him.

Suddenly, a woman entered from the mouth of the cave, dark-haired, beautiful; a buxom lass, polished, brushed—dress pressed—in white, walked with grace over to the ugly dwarf.

"Hobman—" she began, but was stopped.

"You may address me, wench, as the all powerful wizard don Koldun Boy Yar Soldat, or feel the wrath of my magic and staff."

The woman's detached, emotionless expression fixated on the wooden staff, sensing its awesome power. The dwarf stuck it in his mouth, his bovine tongue still tasting the blood and brains from where it had cracked the old wizard's head wide open.

" _Dwarf_ ," she added with scorn.

Her eyes casted a long malice-filled glare at the deformed creature in front of her; her aura filling the room, causing the knees of the hunchback to tremble and shake with fright. His mouth salivated curses and wards of conjured fear. Trying to ward the woman away with several shakes of its staff.

It launched a ball of fire at her, which the woman deflected with a flick of her wrist.

"Don't come near me, wench, you witch!"

Its mind ran frantic, its ugly mind's eye delving deeper into the realm of divine knowledge for a spell that would work; the creature screamed, spasming on the floor, writhing in pain. Cyrielle jumped back as the horrid creature began to convolt, its mouth opening to the suggestions of demons and monsters. The woman brought her arms up and casted a spell for her own protection. Frogs, worms, and birds began to peel off the creatures skin, flying towards the woman, but only to burst apart as they touched the woman's magic shield. The creature got up and stumbled, its eyes dripping with tears and mucus; it make a clawed gestures of harnessing evil, and the woman's shoulder flared with pain. She screamed and fell to her knees; she tore her hands over the pain, saw blood, saw a triplicate of vertical cuts that had torn her shoulder apart.

The creature had broken her barrier so easily, she thought; within a single day it had already mastered so much. The creature jerked its bulbous hands towards the woman, and the woman was hit by a torrent of pain. She screamed as though her body was being torn into two, as though every fiber of her being were being atomized and dipped in acid. She brought her hands up to the dwarf and launched a telekinetic assault, trying to remove the creature's tight grasp from the staff, but her effort was easily thwarted by the creature.

It sang.

" _A genie in a bottle,  
_ _I think I'll make you be.  
_ _With your magic,  
_ _Grant me_ —  
 _Something tragic.  
_ _A genie in a bottle  
_ _Now, you'll be mine to cottle._ "

The woman felt a tug on her chest, and couldn't resist. In a flash of blinding light of its own creation, the creature Koldun fell to the floor in agony. Its eyes had teared up in equal measure from the shaft of brilliant illuminance and from the pain it had felt after delving too deep into the arcanum of knowledge the staff had granted. And the creature now knew that it was no ordinary magic staff.

It wasn't of this world, this existence. It has been as much as the wizard's as it was his. Whomever so much as touched the staff was consumed by it, and could think of nothing else, until every fiber of their being—their emotion, their past, their memories—ceased to exist, and they were reduced to a mindless, babbling corpse or, as was the case of the wizard, a mindless being with supernatural power, unable to fathom the simplicity of life, forgetting how to look inward, how to look forward, only seeing the larger picture of grand things.

It shivered at the thought, and dropped the staff into the cavernous floor. His entire body trembled with savage fear—animalistic instinct told him to run, to run, to get as far away from the staff as possible—and he sat near the fire, keeping his back to the horrid, wooden thing. And he took from his coat into his blackened hands a phial. Inside, with the removal of cork, would be the fairy he had captured. He couldn't have done it without the staff—the staff, the staff, the staff.

"No, I'm a powerful being. I don't need a dumb stick of wood to rely on. It was my power that captured the fairy, my power," it repeated as though the phrase comforted him.

Koldun thought, how did I know the woman was a fairy. In truth, they looked so much like the elfs and humans that it was nearly impossible to tell the difference, but he knew he was sure about it. He knew it was a fairy he had smited, snuffed out her essence into a crystalline phial with cork. It was the staff, he thought, that had imparted the knowledge. And he knew that she was no ordinary fairy—no, no ordinary fairy—but that of fairy royalty.

She was his slave, he thought wondrously to himself: a wondrous marvel, a marvelous wonder, indeed. He couldn't resist. He chanted a spell.

 _"Oh my Genie  
_ _My pretty thing  
_ _I've spoken the key  
_ _Come at the ring."_

It rapped its black nail against the crystal surface—the sound of a copper bell—and the cork popped off with a wisp of smoke. And through vapor came Cyrielle enchained by the will of her master. She stood with eyes glaring complete and utter hatred at the disfigured creature don Koldun Boy Yar Soldat.

It laughed in glee, and said, "Oh my fairy, my genie, tell me how complete I bested you."

The woman cocked her head with bright blue eyes and glared, unable to fight it, unable to ignore, "Completely," she uttered through clenched teeth, then said, "That staff is too powerful to be wielded by the likes of you. I suggest you leave and get as far away from it as possible before it is too late."

The ugly dwarf mused, are genies meant to give advice he already followed? He didn't want to look behind him where the staff would be.

"Tell me," he asked, "Do I have access to all your knowledge."

"Yes."

The creature cheered, a gross sound of pleasure, "And your magic spells?"

"Yes," her eyes looked hostile, she now belonged to him—if he wanted, he could make her look more pleased, more happier to be in his presence.

"Goodie good good, there is much to do, and a certain Rusalka to woo."

The creature returned the cork to the phials and pranced out of the cave in his ruined black clothes. His hunched back made it hard to walk, but easier now that he had remembered to grab his cane.


	10. Part 2, Chapter 4

Chapter 4—Hive Mind

IV

The Minion Burrows stood a labyrinth of tunnels that ran criss cross throughout the underworld of the Dark Tower. It was here, protected within these abysmal recesses, where few enemies could hope to navigate, that the various minion hives were kept. The minion hives stood organic masses of infernal heat and design, a plethora of worm-like tendrils that glowed with their collected life force. The minions made their homes here, sleeping on rags and the furry carcasses of rats.

The woman was disgusted; she was bothered by the smell and decided that the next village they robbed would be first robbed of all its blankets and beds. While the minion's sanitation wasn't the primary concern of the either the Overlord's or themselves, the fact remained that the putrid smell was unbearable. And she decided that the construction upstairs would carry on until it got down her.

The Overlord stood deplorable—fur coat, red boots, bracelets, rings, and ear-rings—with an entourage of minions, her personal guards, who stood straight and proper like the false apparitions of real soldiers. She inspected the pile of components at her feet: dark crystals of pure evil energy, pink fairy gems she had gathered from forest, alkaline salt, lizards, toads, and a hundred women chained ankle-deep in the alchemic dust, peasants and daughters with an unfortunate fate.

"Everything is ready, my liege," Gnarl said.

"I know; now, tell the minions to stand back."

The woman's body began to cast a miasma of black, darkness filled the caverns as all the candles and torches went out by gusts of sinister wind. The bowels of the Tower trembled with her awesome power. The ceiling shook loose large rocks that fell unto hapless creature below, whose yellow eyes glowed, screaming a cacophony of dismal horror.

" _Sacred Maidens  
_ _Their breasts unfilled  
_ _Become ravished  
_ _With gross motherhood._

 _Dissolve thy life  
_ _Into dust to_ —  
 _Rule this grotto_ —  
 _And become like queens_

 _For this hive. Pretty—  
_ _Things, alive no more,  
_ _Will live as gore,  
_ _With thine life force_

 _Thou will form, thou  
_ _Royal duty, larvae  
_ _Like Roman Charity._ "

* * *

ii

Caenis, a woman wronged, her wish granted; a woman-like man with strength unbounded. Who centaurs fought, mocking her and denying his skills as a fighter, knowing she was once a woman, and found his skin unscratched by all their weapons—it remained, she to be killed in an ordinary way.

* * *

The fabric of the universe shook as Evil crept into the world that night, a hundred souls of virgin women were grafted together by magic. The spell was a success. In a blinding swirl of primordial light, infernal glare of heat, and unforgettable screams, the scene in front of the dark-haired woman changed into that of a new minion hive.

"Gnarl, bring forth that bucket of life force."

The hunchback crossed the cavernous room without delay, completely unbothered by the horrific display. Minions began to relight the torches and candles within the halls, and looked fondly with stupid grins at the novel hive.

Gnarl scooped out the slippery orbs with his claws from a bucket, and put them through what could be viewed as a maw, an organic receptacle. And now they waited for the new minion to be propagated from absolute nothing, to be transmuted from the souls of natural life.

"Well, my heinous liege, it seems like your spell has been a complete success."

"That remains to be seen. I will wait her until then."

"From my estimation, that won't be for another few hours."

"Go and add more life force, as much as we have. This new soldier-minion hive will create a fine vanguard for our forces tonight, Gnarl. Tonight I'll scorch all of the neighboring villages. From there we will finally have a sizable army to work with. Go and make sure all preparations have been completed."

"Yes, m'lady," the old minion said in a shrill canker and left.

Once she was alone from obnoxious sight, she released the tension that her body had contracted. She nearly fell over, but was helped to stand by a few of the nearby minions, who offered her water and food. She brushed they away and grimaced in pain.

That spell had taken a lot out of her. Such an evil spell, such a horrible spell latched into the marrow of her bones with corruption; horrible taint blossomed within her breast. Her eyes glowed russet, puce, a deplorable scarlet. Her breath ran ragged; she was left horribly fatigued.

Her pale skin turned cadervous like a corpse; her head contorted and flared with pain, and she vaguely thought she was sprouting horns and vestigial wing. Evil corruption gave great physical strength, physical strain, which caused horrible pain. It led to physical degradation. Her body was literally falling apart, a malady that affected every overlord. Look at the vampires: pale, dead, but possessing great strength, required the constant blood of mortals to continue their immortal existence. Something similar would soon happen to her: the complete shutdown of her mortal vessel, her physical comportement—having comported herself as Evil her entire life left her remaining days shortened.

She knew it was about to happen. Any day now she would wake up with black horns on her back, every item she touched could be cursed. Oh sin, oh no, oh god.

She called for her minions to walk her to the armory, it was time to suit up and leave, the ground shook as she walked.


	11. Part 2, Chapter 5

Chapter 5—Nightfall's Offense

V

She rode her white mare at full speed, galloping out of the forest, meeting met her troop of red horsemen on the way: they all had red faces, they were dressed in red, and rode on red horses. They marked midday. The sun always stood directly above them.

She faced one of the men, and said, shouting to be overheard from the back of her horse, "We ride on till nightfall."

"How did you fair in that border world by yourself for so long?"

"I wasn't alone for very long. I met my princess, Cyrielle of our heir presumptive. She was the one who told me where I should go."

"You'll cross dangerously close to the old Overlord's dark domain, m'lady. That land is cursed, almost nothing grows. Those villages there are foolish to exist—"

Irina interrupted, and defended, "It's been over a thousands years, Red Sun. You can't blame people for moving on. Let alone humans. Their life spans only span a handful of decades. A score of generations have lived in those villages peacefully ever since."

"Those villages are foolish to exist; the land there is blighted and the animals are savage. And now that there is an Overlord there, I would prefer not to get too close, but I remain your faithful servant."

"I thank you, but it will take too long for you to get there. By the time you would arrive, the villages would already be destroyed. I'm afraid I'll have to fight instead with the men of the Night Sky."

As the woman galloped north she crossed steppe and began to enter the frozen, permafrost tundras. From the mountains that kept the ruins of the old Dark Tower imprisoned in ice, Irina could see that the sky looked grey and blackened, even though it was still midday. The Overlord was a cancer, a malignant growth, always growing and killing without fail. She was up there, all right, the little girl she had met in the forest.

The human girl who jumped at her with inhuman speed, faster than any elf, who had led her disorderly troops of lumpish, gaunt goblins—no, not goblins—minions with all manner of laudable beauty, facing a legion of elfin warriors, all veteran and fearless, without a shred of fear or hesitation. She was a true warrior queen, Boudica of demons, Tomyris of the elfs, famed by her exploits.

Would she be able to do any better tonight? Would the fight end the same, with her defeat, her retreat back into the safety of her Queen. Why was she all alone without forces but her own servants. Surely there were fairies who would've volunteered. Certainly there must be heroes among the elfs and humans who would refuse to tolerate that an overlord has returned once again. But no, she was all alone, charging towards an enemy army. It was the order of her princess, Cyrielle, the heroine of the Great War. Fair and strong Cyrielle, the Princess of the Fairies, who had chosen to play a crucial role, that of the general, the one who stood each time in the way of the minion horde, whose forces always outnumbered hers a hundred to one.

As Irina mused, the day progressed, and soon, given time, she found herself accompanied by a fresh troop of horsemen: they all had black faces, they were all dressed in black, and rode on black horses. They marked the night. The moon rose and followed them.

The Night Sky rode up to her and said, "Ma'am, lady Irina, the men who ride ahead have seen a village under attack, alight with flame, and I am afraid we are too late. Ahead there are countless other fires on the hills. So many of the villages have already been reduced.

Irina grew sullen, but said, "There's no time for that now. Focus on the Overlord. Her departure to Hell will guide those souls she's killed."


	12. Part 2, Chapter 6

Chapter 6—Alone

VI

The village was in ruin: thatched roofs were aflame, the population was either dead or fleeing. Her minions ran through unopposed finishing off the peasant survivors who were managing to valiant defence. In time they would fall. Much of her minions had already begun looting the white-washed homes, doing what they wanted to any survivors they found.

The woman walked through the center of town, her personal guards nipping at her heels like pups yowling for their mother's teat. She had already ran through countless villages like this one, the spawning pits would be backed-up with minions to spawn for weeks with the countless souls they had collected.

Suddenly, a minion on sentry blew a bugle that told of an approaching army. The woman stood on the field of battle in her great spiked armor, and was quickly given a report by one of the minions.

"Horsey, white horsey with lady approaches."

"How many men is she leading," The Overlord could guess who it was—that of the pristine fairy whom she had fought within the Eastern Woods.

"No one, no one," it barked, out of breath from running here.

Had she gone mad? Charging here alone, or was it some trap. She sensed with her mind's eye that there were others with the fairy woman, her ears heard the faint galloping of a cavalry charge, at least a hundred strong. She ordered her minions to make a formation of spears within the confines of the villages and to start barricading the roads.

She wasn't going to take any chances—while in the village, her infantry forces had the advantage over any cavalry.

She ordered her troops, segregated by color: the reds on the rooftops, the greens in the shadows, the browns on the ground, and the blues behind them, while the minion-soldiers stood as large champions between them. This how an Overlord fought.

She waited, and waited, and patiently awaited and then she heard the sound of the first clashing of steel. The battle had begun. And everything began to go wrong.

* * *

Her column of horses passed through the village gates. Black arrows filled the night sky after them, passing harmlessly through the horsemen around her. The minions had organized themselves in squares of spears and long swords in the village streets, but her horsemen trampled the short goblins with ease.

Irina and her black horsemen let loose with their swords and spears, making quick work of the goblins in their way. Her forces remained unseen until it was too late. Too all without changing-eyes, she was alone with the night sky.

The minions' weapons passed harmlessly through the horsemen, finding only night air. The apparitions showed no quarter or mercy, legions of the minions found themselves kicked by the horses feet or cut down by blades all of the sudden as her forces spread out through the village.

Irina used magic to quench the fires around her, seeing that minions of a red-colored variety were hiding within them, fire pouring out of their hands in licks of flames. With her magic, she pointed, a green line of light disintegrated all the bodies it touched.

She saw a few of the surviving villagers in desperate flight, a few were managing to hold out a modest defense. Irina rushed over, the villagers as scared of her as they were of the Overlord's forces.

"Please, oh valiant lady, spread us the storm of your invisible fury."

"It will not harm you, but please tell me where the Overlord is. Then you can make your way out of the village through the main gates."

"She taken control of the village center. See, the steeple of the church? That's where you will find her.

Irina, her mare crashing through the ranks of the grotesque minions, made her way through the windy stone streets. From the interior of building she heard looting and screams of tortured peasants women, but she had to keep moving. As she went fire from the red demonic fiends above came at her, forcing her to delve into her precious pool of magic energy; her white armored fist rose, and a gusts of wind tore them apart in a rain of blood and gore, as though the wind was not a force of nature but steel. Her eyes glowed white, and her aura radiated power.

Rancid green creatures attacked her from behind hands flashing with daggers and scythes, but her magic protected her, and the fiends writhed in agony on the streets as their infernal flash was blessed when they touched her. The air around her cleared of the smoke and flames that plagued the poor village. Her sword shining silver cut through all the fiends within her arm's reach.

The minions, though small were stronger than any man; however, without the direct input of orders from their master their discipline waned. The creatures squares of heavy mail and spears failed to pierce her holy defense, her god-granted strength and magic. The black horsemen of the night rode through them like knives through butter.

Until she failed to sense another crop of minions more in tune with magic; blue fish-goblins blew gusts of death magic, causing horsemen to fade. Irina cursed, it seemed that this battle was far from over.

As the white-armored fairy woman neared the church and its steeple, she saw grey clouds start to gather; a nebulous of rain and thunder. She, the Overlady, was performing evil rites. Irina couldn't fathom how such knowledge was ever taught to a human; the Overlord stank like a human, and she thought like one too—for only a human, driven by emotions such as greed and pride could ever unleash such mayhem—but she was tainted. Some Evil creation had latched into her mind and perverted it, caused her to hate, caused her to do nothing but destroy.

Around her, the corpses of the dead minions and dead villages began to twitch and raise, and skeletal husks poked up from the ground in the streets and fields. All around her, the dead began to raise, newly invigorated with false life. The woman had done the ultimate sin—necromancy, the magic of death. These newly formed fiends, immune to death, stood immortal as her blade cleaved them into, magic caused them to reform, shattered bones reformed in disunion. Long-dead skeletons walked wearing coats of rotting flesh and tore through the remaining villager like wolves; moist Mother Earth eats the bodies of the dead, so too did the dead eat human beings.

The black horsemen rode through them, their swords and spears a torrent of steel, but the dead remained undead. There now stood two armies immortal, immune to one another, locked in a bitter struggle for the fate of the village. The battlefield became an unholy scene, that of walking corpses and sceptres; the villagers screaming in fright, not had anything in their harsh lives, nor the fairy tales told to them after dark, prepared them for such a sight. Insanity crept into their minds, the putrefaction of rational thought, and they screamed in horror throughout the night.

* * *

From the top of the steeple, atop the church that trembled in repulsion from her evil power, she watched as her forces were being destroyed, only the blues could fight these ghosts, the wraith-like horsemen, but their numbers had never been so great. The Overlady fought similar apparitions, and she knew what spells to use. Her eyes began to shine scarlet, and her voice amplified for miles, she chanted.

" _Religious morals_ —  
 _Say thou to bury thy  
_ _Dead. Crossed Under the Earth.  
_ _Sealed thresholds, portals  
_ _Open at my authority_

 _Writhe, climb, festering growth  
_ _Them I grant false life  
_ _To raise from their graves  
_ _Once more._

 _I raise my arms like the Sea-Parter  
_ _And rest undefended.  
_ _In this way,  
_ _The Dead will never lose their fight.  
For no one can kill the dead._"

The woman rose both of her hands in the arm, and kept them there. She chanted a shield spell around her, but remained unmoving. As long as she kept still with her concentration fixed, the dead would remain undead, and her minions who were still alive would find themselves undying.

The two armies, ghost against the soulless dead, clashed through the inflamed village. The white horsewoman glowing with radiant light galloped alone through the cobbled streets, and nothing—no arrow or sword or magic—could touch her. The Overlord watched as she flew through ranks and columns of her minions as though guided by some unseen hand.

"Let her come," the dark-haired woman thought.

Though, the strength of a true heroine, a holy virago, was a sight to see. It was as if touched by the gods, wrapped in the arms of goddesses, given their divine protection to slay all Evil. Still, the power granted to her by Good and white magic didn't come close to the power that she earned for herself. Evil was power, badness is strength—those who are too weak to protect themselves are doomed to die.

While too much chaos brought complete annihilation, too much peace brought total stagnation. Evil was change, about the rise of power and its changing hand. Only the truly powerful, the truly charismatic could lead an empire, and keep it, and protect it. The woman was doing the world a favor, in her wake, she left only the strong to remain and rebuild the world.

The white-armored fairy jumped off her horse and begun to engage her personal guards. They carried long maces and swords and seemed to give the woman trouble.

This fairy was one of the strong, if she killed the Overlord tonight than she could live in peace and procreate a progeny of those who shared her strength. And when the next villain arose they would get to test their strength, and either follow their mother's fate or die, and a new hero would have to take their place.

With her guards slaughtered at her feet, the fairy tried and dragged, fatigued, drew her white bow and loosed an arrow towards the Overlord staring fixated at her from the roof who appearing undefended, but arrow, while true to its mark, bounced harmlessly off the woman armor. The shield spell she had casted held, and would continue to hold all night.

From the rooftop, the Overlords eyes filled with scornful delight, deplorable, her lips curled as she watched the fairy loose arrow after arrow at her without effect.

In the distance, the horsemen began to lose their momentum as the mass of monsters failed to die. An horse of undying and undead abomination began to surround the fairy woman who starred fixated at her approaching doom.

The dark woman began to laugh maniacally, her arms raised over her head as though the anorectic was chained to a prison wall. Her eyes glowed red as began to chant another spell.

The entire village began to shake, the air grew cold, and the Overlord flared with heat, causing the church at her feet to crack the buildings around her to crumble. She spoke.

" _Come day, come  
_ _Night. No time  
_ _For rest, morning  
_ _Is wiser  
_ _than the evening._ "

In the cosmos, the planet wobbled, the precession shifted, and off on the village's horizon, Eos the titaness broke through the darkness of night, and suddenly the village grew empty with noise: the sound of horsemen faded, the minions looked around dumbfounded. Irina found herself alone in the courtyard of the church; above her the Overlord perched on the steeple—unbeknownst to the fairy, she felt horribly fatigued.

* * *

Irina with determined bravery remained fixed in place, not fleeing, not cowering, her hands moved in the detached, mechanical precision, the gait shared by all the graceful immortals, and she took her silver sword from its scabbard, the Cyrielle had gave her at the creek, and took the pedant from her neck, wrapped the chain around the blade.

With a short spell she casted, and the blade flew up into the air and went unhindered through her protective ward, her armor, and passed cleanly through her skin, muscle, and bone. The dark-haired women with yellow, macabre eyes only wobbled at first, then cursed at the pain and the blood she was losing at an alarming rate.

With the concentration of her spell broken, the undead turned dead, the wounds of the undying took root, and all throughout the village the minions bellowed in agony, at their own wounds, and those of their Overlords, who pain they felt as though it had been transmitted, like phantom twins, lost at birth, now found again, their suffering entwined.

"That was one of Cerve's spells," she thought, "It won't kill."

Her vision blurred, and all she could manage to do was claw at the air, creating a rift through space, and fall inside, suddenly collapsing onto the backs of some unfortunate minions back at the Dark Tower, who had been transporting blocks of stone. The weight of her and her armor crushed the minions like raw eggs, and the stone ashlar crumbled as though it were made of chalk. And her vision faded into black.


End file.
